How I Met Your Father
by Yellow Emerald
Summary: "Kids, this is the story of how I met your father. It was 2013, and I'd been invited to his friend's wedding. As it happened, I missed the ceremony itself on account of an espionage mission and a gunfight, but we'll get to that later..." This is a story of social awkwardness, crime, genius and madness. Oh, and a little romance too. It's going to be legen - wait for it - dary!
1. Prologue

**A/N This prologue is my first attempt at co-writing something with Legendberry. We have a fair amount of the story plotted out, and hopefully we will get the first chapter up shortly. This story is told mainly from the Mother's perspective.**

"...And that, kids, is why Uncle Marshall is deathly afraid of inflatable monkeys named Steve!" Ted said smugly, sitting back in his chair.

Our daughter slid even further down in her chair. Her brother mimed shooting himself through the mouth. I had been listening in at the door for around an hour now, and Ted showed no signs of stopping. Perhaps it was time to intervene…

"Ted! Sweetheart, Marshall just called. He says that you're going to be late for the Trilogy!" I announced, peeking my head around the doorframe. As a matter of fact, it wasn't due to start for another hour and a half, but Ted would be fine and Marshall could use the company with Lily visiting her mother.

"Not long now, honey. I'm nearly done telling the kids how we met!" Ted protested.

"I know dear, but think how disappointed you'll be if you miss the opening titles!" I protested. "The kids'll still be here when you get back!"

To his credit, Ted managed to hold out for about ten seconds – then the thought of missing the stream of yellow writing drifting into space got the better of him.

"Okaaay! You're right – as always." He grinned. I gave him an indulgent smile, and both children averted their eyes as we nuzzled our noses together. Luke may even have made gagging noises. What can you expect from a 14-year-old boy?

As Ted bounded out, thoughts of spaceships and Wookiees filling his head, the kids breathed a sigh of relief and sat up a little straighter.

"Thank God, I thought he would never _stop_!"

"I know, right? We all know the ending, there's just no point!"

"Kids, now that your dad's gone to visit your Uncle Marshall for the Trilogy night, I thought _I'd_ tell you the story of how I met your_ father_." I said, walking into the room.

"But Mum, we've already heard him going on about this for ages!" Luke protested.

"Yeah, and he still hasn't got to the point…" Leia muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, okay, but my version will only take a fraction of the time. I promise."

"…Fine." They chorused. They knew I'd made my mind up, and I could tell they were secretly intrigued by our history - it was the only reason they'd put up with Ted's longwinded explanations. Bless him, he doesn't realise how long his stories become when he adds in all the little details. But as an old friend of mine would say, there is nothing so important as trifles. Little details, that is, not the dessert. Although he was rather fond of trifle. Anyway…

I sat down, toeing off my slippers and tucking my legs underneath me on Ted's chair. "It's actually a very interesting story. There's murder, and gunfights, and… let's just say we weren't the only ones hooking up at Uncle Barney's wedding..."

"Gunfights? Dad never mentioned gunfights!"

"Yeah, I would have been way more interested if he'd told us about that!"

"Well... I'm not as good a storyteller as your father, but..."

"You'll do fine."

"Yeah Mum, just tell us the story. Please?"

"It was the year 2013, and –"

"Hang on, Dad's only got to 2012!"

"Well, he's got a lot of back-story to get through. Do you want to hear these 'spoilers' before he gets back, or not?"

Obedient silence fell.

"Right then, well it starts with Aunt Robin and Uncle Barney on the roof..."

xxx

It was late summer, and your Aunt Robin had gone up to the roof to watch the sunset and smoke one last final cigarette before she quit for good… again.

Now, I know your father hasn't done this part of the story yet, but Uncle Barney and Aunt Robin didn't have a very good year in 2013. Uncle Barney's engagement got called off, Aunt Robin had several failed relationships, and both of their careers hit a bit of a roadblock in the form of GNB's stock plummet and the incident with Aunt Robin and Nicki Minaj. Needless to say, your Aunt Robin was feeling stressed out.

"_Nicki Minaj? Who's that?"_

"_Is that the one with the meat dress?"_

"…_Never mind."_

Anyway, she was sitting there, thinking about all the times she and your father had stayed up on that roof, and she realised that she really never wanted to marry him – even as a back-up plan.

On the other hand, she had recently been re-thinking her decision to avoid marriage at all costs – a sentiment shared by your Uncle Barney, who at that very moment came rushing up the stairs, looking…well, not so great. Definitely not dashing, which is how he describes himself when he tells this story.

Your Uncle Barney's day had been a particularly awful one, even by 2013 standards. But we'll get back to that later, all you need to know for now is that he was soaking wet because he got caught in a thunderstorm across town, and that his hair had been dyed pink by a Turkish barber who didn't speak English; he looked a little odd, to say the least.

"Barney?" She frowned, standing up and taking in the bedraggled bachelor. "You look awful, what happe –"

Barney held up a hand, and then leaned over to catch his breath. "I really, _really_ don't want to talk about it." He stopped to catch a few good lungfuls of air. "But…I've been trying to find you all day, because there is something really important I have to tell you."

Robin was a little surprised, because it wasn't like Barney to stay focused on one thing for so long, but she bit her tongue to hold back a sarcastic comment and let him get it out. After a few more gasps of air, he was ready.

"I really don't like peaches." He said. She gave him a confused look. "I mean, my mom and brother really like them, so when I write my shopping list every week, I always put them on it, but I never eat them. The only time they ever got eaten was that summer when we were dating, and it was nice because it was like there was something that made my apartment feel like _home_, you know? And – and you! You hate the colour yellow, but your apartment is painted that colour because you think that it needs to be a cheery colour, and you always liked my apartment because it was grey and simple and…and it just made sense to you. And I guess that what I'm trying to say is that…we _fit, _Robin. Together. And…and I want to marry you, so that we can live in a home together and have peaches in our grey front room. Screw the front porch!"

Aunt Robin only fainted once in her life, kids. And that was why. It may also have been because she skipped lunch. That's how she tells it anyway.

Of course when she woke up she said yes.

Then she had another cigarette to cope with the fact that she had just agreed to marry Barney Stinson – legendary womaniser. And to cope with the fact she didn't regret it at all.

xxx

_Meanwhile, back in my hometown…_

It was the year 2013, and I was just getting over yet another failed relationship. One of my colleagues, a guy from IT, had turned out to be not only gay but also a _total nightmare_. But we'll get onto him later…

I responded to this in the sensible tradition of all twentysomethings: I pursued someone equally inappropriate.

_"And that was Dad? Wow, you don't beat around the bush…"_

_"No, no, that wasn't your father. But he was the reason for me getting the invitation that led me to meet your father. Let me explain…"_

I'd fallen for a guy who I sometimes helped out with his work. He was tall, dark, handsome, enigmatic and completely and utterly uninterested. Now, I tried. Believe me, I tried. Lipstick, offering him coffee, the occasional sociable chat in the morgue hallway…

_"You met him at the morgue? Surely that was a clue he was bad news!"_

_"Leia! Don't talk about your uncle like that!"_

_"W-what?_"

Anyway, things came to a head at a Christmas party where he made it abundantly clear that there was absolutely no chance of us getting together.

_"Was he married? Was it Uncle Marshall?"_

_"Luke, when have you ever heard anyone describe your Uncle Marshall as 'enigmatic'?"_

_"Good point. Was he gay, then?"_

_"You know, I don't think he was. You never could tell with him, though."_

From then on, I resolved to treat him as a friend and nothing more. It was tough, but I was determined to get over my stupid schoolgirl crush and move on. That's why, when offered, I jumped at the chance to visit the States as his flatmate's plus-one for a wedding.

_"And his flatmate was Dad, right?"_

_"Nice try, Leia, but no. I met your father at the wedding, actually."_

So anyway, John – that was the flatmate's name – he was complaining to me over a cup of coffee about how his latest girlfriend had dumped him because – funnily enough – she was convinced that John had a thing for his flatmate.

Which he didn't, by the way. I checked.

He just laughed it off and said he wouldn't risk his sanity by dating that nutcase, even if he was gay.

Which he wasn't. I checked with his sister a while back, when rumours about those two were all over the Web… Look kids, after the whole disaster with my last boyfriend, I wasn't taking any chances.

Then John rolled his eyes and said that everyone seemed to think they were an item. What was worse, he was hardly going to improve matters by turning up to his cousin's wedding with no girlfriend in sight – and Tall, Dark, and Gorgeous tagging along if he couldn't come up with a more feminine date.

Before I quite knew what I was doing, I offered to go with him. I can still remember his reaction: the look on his face was priceless…

"Er, sorry, what?" And then, to himself: "…Damn, I think he's put hallucinogens in my coffee again."

"No, no, I just thought – because I'm a girl – and we're friends… That you might possibly like to take me as your plus-one and avoid the whole mistaken sexuality thing… You know, only if you want to. I don't mind. Let's just forget I said anyth –"

"Hang on. You want me to take you to my cousin's wedding?"

"Um, maybe?" I blushed; this was not going as smoothly as I'd hoped.

"Look, this isn't some sort of rebound thing, is it? Because while I'm flattered, I think it might get kind of awkward –"

"No! God, no. Nothing like that." I squeaked. He breathed a sigh of relief as I loosened my ponytail, more for something to do than because it was too tight. Our eyes met and I couldn't help but giggle. He joined in, and when the giggle fit had subsided, he said:

"God, no wonder we're both single!" He smothered a laugh. "So, would you like to accompany me to my cousin's wedding, purely as a friend, and with no pseudo-genius gits in sight?" He smiled. "I should warn you, my cousin lives in America."

A chance to visit the States? And a wedding full of gorgeous, single American guys? Perhaps some might even ride _motorbikes_…

_"Ew, Mum, that's Dad you're talking about!"_

_"Shh! Shut up, Luke!" At least Leia understood the appeal of motorbikes._

"Sure!" I grinned. Then I frowned at him. "I mean…that enthusiasm has nothing to do with you. You're lovely and everything, John, but I don't fancy you."

"Great. Ditto. So…not a date, then."

"No, not a date. Just a wedding and a chance to prove your heterosexuality!"

"…Right. I'll e-mail you the details when I get home." And with that, he drained his coffee and headed back into the morgue to see whether his friend had emerged from his 'mind palace' yet.

_"Mind palace?"_

_"You know how your uncle gets, Leia. Once he has a puzzle to solve, he'll go to the ends of the Earth to clear it up... Even if that means sitting like a statue for an hour or two, checking his hard-drive for data."_

Anyway, that was how I ended up on a transatlantic flight sandwiched between some chatty red-head named Donna and John, who, poor thing, fell asleep within the first fifteen minutes.

Apparently, he hadn't got any sleep the night before. I forget exactly why… It was something to do with a red-head and a bank heist or something. There were exploding crates of Euros and a Cockney in there somewhere. Of course, it was one of their crazy escapades, and – as ever – only John showed any sign of tiredness as a result.

I don't know, kids, it was a long time ago and I had other things on my mind… Like wondering what John's cousin was like, and whether he knew any normal, nice guys who weren't romantic disasters waiting to happen.

Of course, your father was a romantic disaster already in progress, but you know that side of the story...

**A/N That's set up everything for the main storyline… So, what did you think of it? Did you spot the random references? Leave a review and let us know!**

**Yellow Emerald & Legendberry**


	2. Chapter 1

How I Met Your Father

**A/N In this chapter, we present the worst entrance to New York City possible; our heroine meets the HIMYM women; someone's past is brought to light yet again; there's a mysterious midnight moment; and least importantly we find out Mrs. Hudson is on Mycroft's lists…**

My first impressions of New York were pretty simple. It was getting dark, so you could barely see the light glinting on the litter lining the pavements. There were so many shop lights, and neon signs, and giant glowing billboards, that our eyes were dazzled even though the sun had set.

The smell of New York was certainly distinctive – and impossible to ignore, as we were stuck in a taxi with a broken air conditioner. The only way to keep cool was to open the windows, and doing that meant we had to breathe in the mingled scents of rubbish, cigarette smoke and random bursts of car exhaust fumes. I've seen first-hand what smoke can do to someone's lungs, and it's disgusting.

"_Yeah, Mum, we know. You've told us a million times."_

And without the windows to filter out the noise, the blaring of car horns and the endless hustle and bustle of city life was almost unbearably loud. There was the odd shout or scream of panic as the occasional person bumped into someone who mistook them for the infamous big-city mugger psycho every suburban newbie dreads, before realising their mistake and hurrying away. Snatches of music from other cars were audible for a few seconds at a time, creating an odd mix-tape of all sorts of genres. My personal favourite went "Sandcastles in the - motel – swimming pool – jump in, meet my friends – California girls – hanky panky." It almost made sense, a remarkable trick of coincidence. But that's getting off-topic.

We had to take a diversion to avoid a car crash that was blocking the road. The resulting twists and turns, combined with the driver's dangerously limited understanding of the speed limit and the unfamiliar heat of America, made me feel sick.

Okay, kids, I'm not going to lie to you. I didn't just feel sick, I had to get out and throw up. It was not nice. Luckily, John was a perfect gentleman and offered me some mints and a few tissues once I was done. Soon, we were on our way again.

It was only a few more minutes' journey, though for me it felt much longer! We pulled up outside an Irish bar. Of course, it was McLaren's.

I had no idea how central that place was to the dark web that was spun across the Atlantic. I didn't realise how important it was going to be in the days that followed. I had no concept of how dangerous it was to be anywhere near it.

I also didn't know that it was where I would meet my future husband.

"_Oh my God, you were one of the chicks Dad tried to pick up at McLaren's?"_

"_He said the story was much more interesting than 'we met at a bar'!"_

"_Oh, that was just the beginning, kids. Remember, we haven't got to the gun-fights yet…" And they instantly sit still again. Now, that's what I call parenting!_

So anyway, John and I split the taxi fare. He offered to pay, but I knew he didn't have much money with him, bless him. Neither of us left a tip. The driver grunted a farewell and departed with a screech of burning tyres.

We walked into the bar to meet John's cousin, Robin.

Honestly, kids, I thought that Robin was going to be a man right up until John pointed your aunt out as his cousin. It's an easy mistake to make with a gender-neutral name like that.

So, a bit thrown by this, I re-assessed her. She had her back to me, a shorter woman with red hair seemed to be telling her a story or something. Robin was a brunette, with a classy emerald green satin blouse and a black pencil skirt. I guess she and John shared that slightly traditional dress sense. She wore black shoes with a one-inch heel – presumably they doubled as her work shoes – and even without the heel she was still taller than John. She had no jewellery on except for a gold ring on her left hand. The engagement ring, judging by the glittering diamond I caught sight of as she moved. I'm no expert on that stuff, but it looked expensive, even by engagement ring standards…

As for the redhead –

"_Aunt Robin had a red-headed friend?"_

"_What's with all the gingers in this story?"_

"_I don't know, Luke, maybe they're all in league with each other or something. More likely, it's just a coincidence. Do you actually want me to get through this story today?"_

As for the redhead, she was much smaller than John's cousin (and smaller than John himself, which made him a very happy, but kind of short, man). She was talking pretty loudly, with the kind of body language you would expect for someone who was completely confident in her own skin. She was wearing fairly muted colours, but with large paint splatters dotted here and there that told me she either spent a lot of time with young children, or was a keen amateur painter. She too was wearing a wedding band, although not as expensive looking as Robin's - she had probably been married a little longer.

"Hello again, Rob." John tugged me towards the pair and introduced us. Both of them smiled politely and shook my hand when I offered it.

"…And this is my cousin John, Lily." Robin said, introducing us to the redhead.

"_Aunt Lily was ginger?"_

"_Apparently when she was in uni _–_ I mean college _–_ she had black hair!"_

"_Weird!"_

"It's nice to meet you – Rob's told me a lot about you." John said politely. Lily's eyes widened.

"Well hello there!" she cooed, obviously wowed by the unfamiliar British accent. I could sympathise – after all, hearing the American accent coming from people's mouths often dazzled me. It's like the sound of Hollywood or something.

"_But that's just how people talk!"_

"_Not in London, Luke."_

I looked at Robin's face for the first time, and had an odd sensation of déjà vu. She stared at me, and I blushed.

"Um, sorry. That was weird, for a moment there I thought I'd seen you before… Er, never mind." I burbled. Lily gave me a strange look. I couldn't tell if she thought I was crazy or if she just liked my accent as well as John's.

Robin grinned and took a sip of her whiskey. "No worries, I'm not aboat to go all Bridezilla on you."

She was kind of similar to John, with her relaxed yet poised demeanour and her evident fondness for Scotch. On the other hand, her accent was very distinctly Ameri – no, wait, did she say 'aboat'? One of my favourite pop stars used to speak like that; she was from Canada, I think. So she had to be Canadian, then?

Hang on a minute.

Could it be…? Was that why I thought I'd recognised her? I took another look at her, trying to picture big blond curls and a denim graffiti coat, and bingo.

"Ohmigosh you're Robin Sparkles!" I squeaked, practically jumping up and down with excitement.

"_You were a Robin Sparkles fan?"_

"_She had fans?"_

"_Sandcastles in the Sand was a misunderstood single, kids. It had a lot more raw potential than many modern pop songs. Besides, Let's Go To The Mall was an instant pop classic, so of course she had fans! I got the cassette for my birthday one year, and I was hooked. Naturally, I was thrilled to meet my childhood heroine..."_

"Wh – how did you –? John, you didn't…?"

"Not a word, I swear." He looked at me and raised an eyebrow, but I was too ecstatic to notice.

"Can I have your autograph? I can't believe it!"

"Uh, sure. I can't believe you know who I am – I thought you were British?"

"Oh, I am, but we import all the American music." An awkward pause. "Not that Canadian is the same thing, but y'know, it's a similar accent… and the same language… so we can understand it fine."

"So, um, where's the wedding going to be, Rob?" John cut in before I could dig myself into an even deeper hole.

"Well, we were thinking of the registry office, but Ted – my man of honour – said that wasn't romantic enough. Now we're hoping to get a rental venue that meets his standards." Robin Sparkles, best singer ever, rolled her eyes light-heartedly and handed me her autograph with a small smile. I think she secretly liked the appreciation for her old career, even though I hadn't expressed it well. "Tell you what, if we find a karaoke bar before the wedding, you and I could do a duet if you like." I think my heart may have skipped a beat out of sheer joy. Robin's lips quirked into a half-smile. "I usually don't do that kind of thing, but your face really lit up when you realised it was me. And I've never had a sane fan before!"

Lily piped up: "Hey, I know a good karaoke place. Why don't we have a girls' night out? We can show you some great bars and clubs, right Robin?"

"Sure. You up for that?"

What could I say? I hate pub crawls, but on the other hand, there was Robin Sparkles inviting me to sing with her onstage… It was like my twelve-year-old self's dream come true.

"Yep! Should be fun!" I chirped, resolving to line my stomach with a bagel or something before we had anything to drink. I'd always wondered if bagels tasted better in New York… They do, in case you're wondering.

"And John, you can head back to my place if you want. I've set up the guest room for you." Robin passed him her keys. "You have the address, right?"

"Yes, it's on my phone. Have fun, ladies. I think I'll go and have a cup of tea. Perhaps now I'll get a chance to read a mystery novel without having the end ruined after the second page…" He smiled ruefully. I knew he missed his flatmate's idiosyncrasies really, but I let it lie. Odds were, your uncle was lazing around the flat missing him too.

xxx

It was almost a whole day since John had set off for the States, and his flatmate was bored. Bored, bored, bored. The wall was now riddled with more bullet holes, reading "SH " if you looked carefully.

The silence, punctuated by the occasional mutter of "still bored", was broken by the landlady's voice. "You've got a visitor, dear! A nice young lady, called… er… what _is_ your name, sorry?"

"Ah." He leapt to his feet and opened the door. "Do come in." He said to the impeccably-dressed woman at the foot of the stairs. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. It never did.

"Your brother has a case for you."

"So what? Why didn't he just call me?"

"It's… sensitive."

"Which is the reason he sent you."

"Of course. I'll fill you in with the details on our way there."

"I rather doubt that, Eve."

"All the ones I'm permitted to tell you."

"…Great." He rummaged through a desk drawer and pulled out a handgun. "Let's go."

"No, leave your gun. Grab your passport instead."

xxx

_Kids, I'll tell you now _–_ there wasn't a case. This is what _really_ happened…_

"Hello, you've reached the office of Mycroft Holmes." It was his assistant's voice, although Mrs. Hudson didn't know her name.

"Oh hello dear, I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Holmes briefly…"

"Who's calling?" Eve checked the list of names that Mycroft had given her this morning: people who most likely _would _phone, and a much shorter list of those he was willing to speak to.

"It's Mrs. Hudson, dear. His brother's landlady? It really is rather urgent…"

At the mention of Mycroft's troublesome baby brother, Eve put the matronly woman straight through to Mycroft's office phone.

"Hello Mrs. Hudson, this is Mycroft Holmes, how may I be of assistance today?" Mycroft asked, putting aside a report on the economic state of Latvia.

"It's your brother, dear. He's locked himself in his flat and hasn't come out since John ran away to America with that lovely girl from the morgue. And I know for a fact that the only things in his fridge are a kidney and half a bottle of milk. He'll starve at this rate!" Mrs. Hudson babbled. Mycroft frowned.

"It _is_ possible to eat kidneys, Mrs. Hudson."

"A _human_ kidney, Mr. Holmes." She scolded. "Anyway, so I was up late last night watching Miss Marple and having a little rest, and all of a sudden there's this banging noise, and I tell you Mr. Holmes, I will not be happy if there has been another wall incident!"

Mycroft sighed. "Indeed."

"I understand that he's pining for John, but really, he _needs_ to get out of the house! Maybe you could lend him your assistant so he's got a little company… just until John comes back, I mean." Mycroft considered this as she continued to prattle on. "Because I know he said he was going there for a wedding, but he'll never go through with it! They're always together and I've never had tenants that are so –"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you for calling. As it is, I shall endeavour to get my brother 'out of the house' and into the fresh air. Good day." Mycroft hung up.

"_And kids, it just so happened that Mycroft was planning to send someone over to the States that very week. And who could be more trustworthy than his assistant Louise and his baby brother?"_

xxx

_Meanwhile, back in the US, I'd come home after a long night out on the town, stumbled into Lily's spare bed, and fallen asleep almost immediately. _

I woke up in darkness. I didn't know what had roused me from my sleep, but I figured it must have been some sort of noise. I could've sworn I heard something, but in my half-alert state I'd already forgotten what it was.

I grabbed Marshall's dressing gown from the hook on the back of the door and pulled it on over my stripy pink pyjamas. It was too long for me, of course, and it trailed along the floor after me like a bridal train, but it kept me warm. The temperature had dropped considerably without the leftover heat of the sun.

I stepped out into the living room. Nothing stirred. I could hear the baby snuffling nearby, it was that quiet.

Marshall and Lily were fast asleep in their room.

They were still breathing. I checked. Listen, kids, you work in the medical world and your first thought on hearing a mysterious noise in the night becomes, not "oh no, the boogie-man" but "oh no, someone's had a heart attack and collapsed before they could summon help!" The amount of bodies I've dealt with that died like that is crazy.

So, now I knew everyone else in the flat was asleep, where had the noise come from? I was about to give it up as a remnant of a dream I'd been having, but then I heard something else. It was a kind of muffled shriek.

Alarmed, I looked for the nearest weapon and found – weirdly enough – a pair of crossed swords set over the mantelpiece. I slid one out and crept downstairs, listening intently. There was a chink of light coming from the door to MacLaren's, which struck me as a bit odd. I mean, sure, New York is the city that never sleeps, but surely a little place like that wasn't open twenty-four seven!

I snuck closer to the door, and I could catch the sounds of ragged breathing. It sounded like a man crying. In my line of work, it was a familiar sound.

I peeked in through the keyhole – I know, it's cliché, but there was one available and I didn't want to risk edging the door open.

Inside, the bartender was slumped at the bar. There was a large glass of brandy next to him, it was half-empty. As I watched, he picked something up from the bar and glanced at it in despair. It looked like a postcard with a photograph of a tower on it. I didn't get a good look at it, but it looked vaguely familiar. He threw it to the floor and drained the rest of the brandy in three gulps.

I wondered if he was an alcoholic, maybe the postcard was a leftover from a bad break-up or something?

Before I had time to think any further, I heard Lily's voice sleepily calling my name. I hurried back upstairs, we had a cup of hot chocolate each – with marshmallows, of course – and what with Lily's dreamlike chatter and the fact I was seriously sleep-deprived, I almost completely forgot about the curious incident of the sobs in the night-time.

Of course, it turned out to be a good deal more sinister than a break-up. But we'll get to that soon enough, once your uncle has explained it to the rest of us. It won't make sense to you otherwise.

"_Now, kids, I've been trying to avoid talking about him too much so far, because _– _by his very nature _– _your uncle tends to become the main character in any story. Even this one. But I can now confirm that the John I travelled to America with was your Uncle John, and of course his flatmate was none other than Sherlock Holmes _–_ your Uncle Shock."_

"_What?"_

"_I knew it!"_

Now, Sherlock was at the airport –

"_You had a crush on Uncle Shock?"_

"_Er…"_

So, there he was at the airport. This was before his career took off, so he wasn't being mobbed by the paparazzi or anything. He was just standing there being lectured by Mycroft while the assistant stood a little way away, glaring at a sign that said NO MOBILE PHONES.

"But _why _couldn't I bring a gun?" Sherlock whined.

Passersby stared at him with morbid curiosity, all hoping fervently that they wouldn't be sat near him – or even on the same flight as him.

"I've _told_ you, Sherlock, you shouldn't be needing one. Plus you have no idea how much paperwork it requires…"

"And _why _am I going, again?"

"Firstly, you know that's classified, and secondly… because I am holding your skull to ransom until further notice." Now Mycroft was the one getting funny looks. Fortunately, as a Holmes, you got used to that at a young age.

Sherlock huffed, muttering: "What did Victor ever do to you?"

Mycroft smirked. "Now, what I _can_ tell you is that my assistant will be conducting her own tasks on this trip. Don't take it amiss if she slips away in a crowd – she'll get in touch or come back soon enough. Oh, and by the way…" He rummaged in his briefcase. "I thought you might want some entertainment on the flight." He handed Sherlock an A5 book called _Brain-busters: Expert Puzzles. _"Enjoy. I'll be joining you across the pond once I sort out the little dispute over that treaty… Have a safe flight." He walked away without any further indication of affection for either of them.

Eve looked at Sherlock with a small frown. This was going to be one hell of a long flight…

**A/N Poor Anthea/Eve/Louise. She's going to need a lot of patience. We've decided that everyone should call her by different names, otherwise why would she have bothered making up a new one for John? **

**Anyone who can correctly point out three of the random references in this chapter (there are more) will get a mention in the next chapter. **

**Please leave a review, we'd love to hear your opinions!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N Okay guys, for future reference neither Legendberry nor I know anything about Season 8, so no spoilers! (And obviously if we contradict it, it's because E4 can't buy it fast enough.)**

_Kids, your Uncle John met your father before I did. This was because I was still in bed, fast asleep after the late night I'd had, and he was perfectly refreshed and over his jet-lag thanks to his early night. It just wasn't fair._

_Unfortunately, your father didn't make a good first impression._

"So what was it? An encyclopaydia?"

"Er, no…" John said, deciding to ignore the odd pronunciation.

"Was it a book on classical architecture? I own fifty-seven…"

"It was the London A-Z, actually, and – wait, fifty-seven? Seriously?" John was amazed, and a little worried that he'd met an architectural equivalent of Sherlock.

"They all offer a unique perspective!" Ted protested.

"And in fifty-seven books, you have no doubles?"

"No, I have doubles of some things, but they have different coffee stains!"

"…Right." John made a mental note to avoid this clear-cut loony at the wedding, wondering what Rob saw in him for a man of honour. Maybe he was gay and had amazing taste in clothes or something.

Barney, Rob's blond fiancé with the impeccable suit – which faintly reminded John of Moriarty's – cut in.

"So, John, this English chick you brought along… is she hot?"

John blinked and his gaze flickered across to Robin, who promptly punched Barney in the arm.

"Domestic abuse, help!" Barney mockingly cried, sinking to his knees and rubbing his arm.

"Ignore him, John, he's just been a bachelor so long he's forgotten how to behave. I'm going to have to house-train him…" Rob rolled her eyes, taking a swig of her beer. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning, but Robin knew she'd need something to take the edge off the horrors of wedding planning.

Deciding to completely ignore Rob's lecherous fiancé and his architectural know-it-all friend, John turned to Robin's remaining male friend, whom he considered the most normal of the three – the giant wearing the papoose.

"'sup." Said the environmental lawyer, whom John had been assured was a genius in his field.

"Marshall, right?" John said, trying not to let his eyes wander to the high-visibility yellow baby-carrier.

"Yeah. You're the blogger guy, right? Robin mentioned you did some kind of crazy adventure for a living, so I looked you up in case you were involved with the Loch Ness Monster or the Queen of the Fairies or something. Those cases were, like, intense, dude!"

"Er, thank you…?" Said John, wondering whether Robin knew anyone sane at all. Probably not. Then again, 'Jim' had practically _been_ the Queen of the Fairies… "So, um, who's the baby's mother?"

"My wife, Lily. I think you met last night, right?"

"Oh, right, yeah." Said John, thinking that with parents like that, Marvin was bound to turn out a little kooky. Who names their kid Marvin, anyway? "She seems nice."

"She's awesome. Hey, is that girl you brought with you your girlfriend?"

"No, no, we're just good friends." John assured him.

"You married?" Marshall asked.

"No, I don't even have a girlfriend."

"How come?"

"Sherlock." John said, shaking his head in bemusement. It had gone on so long, he'd given up on getting annoyed with the detective for scaring off his dates. It really was kind of funny, if you thought about it with a touch of irony.

"Oh, you two are together? But on your blog you kept telling people you weren't gay - did you just come out?"

"What? No! I'm still not gay! I meant he keeps being socially awkward or downright rude whenever I bring anyone back to the flat – anyone female, that is, because contrary to everyone else's opinion on Earth, I am actually heterosexual." John burst out. He realised with a sinking feeling that he'd actually verbalised his thought process, and all of Rob's guy friends were now staring at him awkwardly.

"Dude." Barney stepped forwards. "Do you have a problem with gays or something?"

"Huh?" John was caught off-guard, and confusion stole his words from him.

"'Cause my brother is gay, and I'm not cool with people who aren't cool with that." It was the first time John had seen him not joking around, and his clear, focussed gaze betrayed an intense personality. That must be what Rob saw in him.

"No, it's fine – I'm, I'm 'cool with that', I mean – my sister's gay too. And that's fine. It's great. Clara's lovely. But I'm not gay. And even when I go on holiday to a place where Sherlock can't possibly follow me, the universe decides to question my sexuality yet again… I just spoke without thinking about how it sounded."

Barney nodded, seemingly satisfied with that explanation, and returned to his light-hearted demeanour.

"Well, bro, if that's all, maybe I can help. Because I, Barney Stinson, am the greatest wingman that New York has ever seen – if I can't get you hooked up, no-one can!" He proclaimed proudly. "Especially since we've got the wedding coming up – tons of babes just waiting for an English gentleman to help them out of their dresses. You're bound to score!"

"Honestly, Barney, I doubt it. Even if I did, I haven't managed to hold down a relationship for years." John sighed. "There's not much point. Even if I found someone, she'd never be able to put up with Sherlock. None of them have."

"Challenge accepted! I, Barney Stinson, wingman extraordinaire, will find you, John Watson, Robin's English cousin, a chick _without _commitment issues – though the only one I know is Lily – or a problem with this Sherlock guy." Robin rolled her eyes but didn't say anything.

"I didn't challenge you to – "

"Give up now, dude." Marshall muttered to John. "Once he accepts the challenge, he'll see it through – one time, he picked up a woman by talking like a little boy. Another time, he dressed up as a pensioner. He really can do anything… At least, according to him."

_And kids, he even managed to get your Uncle John and your Auntie together. Sort of. Well, he counts it as a success. He's even put it on his website, and his résumé… _

At that point, Ted's phone alarm went off and conveniently interrupted things. With a cheerful grin, he stood up, looped his arm through Robin's, and announced that they had an appointment with the venue managers to discuss table coverings and chair ribbons. As they strode away, John could hear Ted asking Rob if she'd done her homework and learnt the difference between beige, magnolia and cream. He wasn't fully paying attention to her reply, as he'd just caught sight of Ted's phone-box-red cowboy boots.

"Oh yeah, you've never seen the fire hydrants before, have ya?" Barney grinned, indicating the fashion disasters as they stepped out of the bar. "Do you think he's pulling them off?"

"I hope so, they look hideous!" John muttered. Then he realised what Barney had meant by 'pulling them off'. "Er, I mean, no, not really."

_Kids, at this point I'd just finished having breakfast with your Aunt Lily and we came downstairs just in time to catch the last bit of that exchange._

"Who looks hideous?" Lily asked, scanning the bar for any bimbos that weren't up to scratch. Not finding any, she shrugged and went to sit by the tallest man in the group.

"Um, hi everyone…" I said, waving to the guys. Your Uncle Marshall struck me as a modern-day, clean-shaven, Muggle version of Hagrid… wearing a neon yellow papoose. I guess the colour was meant to force people to avoid crashing into him. Or perhaps it was to repel Blast-Ended Skrewts or something.

Your Uncle Barney, on the other hand, was fairly attractive.

"_Ew!"_

"_Gross, mum! How many of our uncles did you fancy?"_

"_Calm down, you two. He wasn't _that_ attractive. Plus, he introduced himself as…"_

"…Robin's fiancé, Barney Stinson. Soon to be Barney Scherbatsky."

_I soon discovered that Marshall was Lily's husband too. So much for single, American, motorbike-riding hotties…_

"Lovely to meet you both." I caught sight of the baby, and realised that the papoose actually had a practical purpose. "Aww, who's this little guy?"

_Kids, I'm not fond of babies. But people always hate you if you show that, so I just mimic my colleagues in the maternity department. Not that I see them often, thankfully._

"Marvin – wait for it – Eriksen." Your Uncle John and I stared at them blankly.

"Why do we need to wait for the surname?"

"Is it for dramatic effect or something? If so, why not just do an elongated pause?"

The Americans stared back at us in disbelief.

"But saying 'wait for it' makes things much more legen– wait for it –"

Your Uncle John and I waited.

"–dary!"

It wasn't worth the wait.

"So, er, his name is Marvin Eriksen… How did you decide on Marvin?" I asked, trying to reboot the conversation.

"No, his name isn't Marvin Eriksen. It's Marvin Wait-for-it Eriksen. We just put W. on the birth announcement, though."

"Wait…" Said John, looking concerned. "You didn't actually put that on the birth certificate, did you?"

"Of course!" They exclaimed.

"And I used to think Hamish was bad…" John murmured.

"Um, Marvin's an… unusual name!" I interjected, before anyone could pick up on John's thinly-veiled insult. He was usually a bit more diplomatic, but frankly I couldn't blame him. I mean, if I'd know he was going to be my nephew, I'd have argued against your Cousin Marvin's name too…

Barney rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I know, it's the worst name ever." My respect for him went up on hearing this. At least one of them had some sense.

"Oh, I don't know," John said, "my flatmate's older brother is called Mycroft."

"What's his middle name? Is it as awesome as Wait-for-it?" Barney, who I had previously assumed to be the only one with taste in names, was now relegated to the crazy corner again in my mental filing system.

"I don't actually know. Never really thought about it before. Suppose he probably has one…" John paused to check his phone, which had just buzzed.

**I'm in New York, any chance your cousin has a spare bed I can use? **

**SH**

_Kids, I've seen a lot of expressions cross your uncle's face since then, but that one made the biggest impression on me. It was a weird mix of exasperation, panic, irritation and… hidden right at the bottom, a gleam of relief. _

"Speak of the devil… Excuse me one minute, I'm just going to answer this…" With that, he walked into the men's bathroom. I could just hear a collection of choice insults before the door closed fully. Bless. Even when he was stressing out, John was such a gentleman – he even made sure Marvin didn't pick up any bad language.

The waitress came over to pick up the empty glasses, and Barney asked her where someone called Carl was. It seemed he'd taken the day off, but Marshall was convinced that he'd got locked in a crypt somewhere. I never found out why.

"Okay, yeah, thanks Rob!" John said cheerily into his phone as he returned from the bathroom. "So, it turns out that Sherlock has come to New York. What a surprise. Anyway, I need to go and get him from the airport, so I'll see you guys later." He said, picking up his jacket and turning to head out the door.

_Kids, I was internally conflicted at this point._

_On the one hand, the sad lack of hot, single, motorbike-riding men could now be alleviated by the presence of a genius, maverick Greek god in human form. This side of me screamed: "Take me with you, John!"_

_On the other hand, I was supposed to be getting over that crush and moving on to bigger, better and more definably interested things. So I also wanted to encourage your uncle John to leave him where he was. Maybe he would get lost or distracted by a murder or something. There were always plenty of those in New York, right?_

_Unfortunately, I was so busy trying to decide which to say that by the time I had made up my mind to say nothing at all, John was already gone._

xxx

_Meanwhile, a few blocks down the road, the bartender was picking up his sister from a large bus bay._

"Carl! It's so nice to see you!" She ran up to him and hugged him.

"Hi Sandy, how have you been?" Carl smiled.

"Oh, not too bad. Lectures keep getting more and more profound – it's a wonder anyone can understand them in the higher years!" She laughed, shifting her bag from one arm to the other.

"That's what you get for taking Divinity, sis: endless sermons."

"Oh, ha ha, Mr. Bartender. One day, I'll be able to revolutionise the theological world, just you wait. Meanwhile, how's the family business going?"

"Well, it's –"

**_It's tonight, it's tonight can't you see? _**

**_Turn the lights out, it's just you and me…_**

"What's that?"

"Uh, text alert, hold on…"

**_Feel my pulse, yeah, beating so hard_**

"Where's the mute button?" Carl muttered.

**_What happens tonight… happens in the dark._**

Carl opened the file to see a photograph. There was a Louis Vuitton suitcase in the foreground, packed with neatly folded expensive-looking suits. On top there was a scattering of Calvin Klein underwear and a whole strip of condoms. It was captioned: **You're fu–**

_Screwed. It said screwed, kids._

It was captioned: **You're screwed. M**

**A/N This is surprisingly long for a chapter that is predominantly chatting, huh? Don't worry, things will happen eventually. Sooner than you think. :)**

**In other news, prize to the person who gets all the references. * Well done to Mord-Sith Rahl for picking up three in the last chapter, and c'mon all you lurkers, join in the fun and click the Review button! (You know you want to!)**

***Prizes may be fictional.**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N Sorry this instalment is out a little later than usual. This probably won't be the last time that happens. Hopefully the lengthy chapter will make up for it!**

_So later that evening, I'd just come back from the ladies' room (I may have refreshed my lipstick just a little) and I was walking over to the Americans' usual booth when I saw a… moderately attractive, dark-haired man talking animatedly to your Uncle Barney. _

_Weirdly, he was wearing red cowboy boots and a blazer. I decided he must be a student - that was the only excuse anyone could have for wearing such a bizarre blend of style. He'd probably got the boots from a charity shop. (Did they have those in America?)_

As she saw me approach, greatest singer in the history of the world Robin Sparkles called out:

"Oh, hey Molly, have you met Ted?"

_And that, kids, is how I met your father._

…

"_That's it?"_

"_You've gotta be kidding! What about the gunfights?_ _The _murders_? The WEDDING?"_

"_Oh, you want to hear the LONG version?"_

"_Yes, Mum!" _

_I sniggered behind my hand. Messing with my kids was so much fun!_

xxx

"So I hear you're a Robin Sparkles fan?"

"Uh… yeah…"

"Which is your favourite song? Have you seen the _Space Teens_ Show with Jessica Glitter?"

_I may have gasped in delight._

"Yeah! I loved that show when I was little! Although sometimes, I didn't understand what they were talking about, so I had to go and look it up in an encyclopaydia!" I could have died from embarrassment. Trust me to get my words all muddled! Ted looked oddly excited though.

"Oh my gosh! I meant encyclopaedia!" I said all in one breath, slamming my palm into my forehead. "Derp!"

Robin and Barney looked at each other.

"Good God, what have we done?" Robin murmured.

"It's like Alien vs. Predator – you don't know who to root for!" Barney replied horror-stricken.

"Anyway, it's so good to meet another Sparkler in the flesh!" I squeaked.

"Wait, what?" Asked Robin (SPARKLES). "My fans have a _name_?"

"There are enough of them to _merit_ a name?" Barney added.

"Oh yes! We have an online community! We have over 150 members now!" I said proudly.

_Kids, if you're interested, it's at: spots/robin-sparkles and has now hit 871 members!_

They al stared at me in stunned silence, then Barney started to muffle his laughter and Ted offered me a high-five.

_Unfortunately, our discussion about the Queen of all things Awesome was rudely interrupted by the arrival of (yet another) tall, blonde, curvaceous bimbo _–_ a fact which distracted Ted._

"Wow! Look at her!" He said in an awed voice. "I should go talk to her!"

_He shouldn't have._

"No, Ted. You shouldn't." Robin said firmly.

"But she's gorgeous!" Ted protested.

'Wow,' I thought. 'This guy is superficial.'

"She's totally out of your league, bro." Barney said bluntly.

_True, she was totally out of his league._

"Yeah dude, I don't think she'd be interested in you." Marshall added.

"I'm an interesting guy!" Ted argued.

_I can't deny that, kids… but she still wasn't interested._

"She could be the one!" Ted pointed out, pulling out the big guilt artillery. "You guys don't get it! You're all married or getting married and I'm completely alone!"

They all hesitated, and then Lily spoke up, treading carefully.

"I suppose, technically, there is a _minute_ chance that she could be 'the one'…" Lily said slowly.

_She wasn't. Obviously. But Aunt Lily's tentative comment was enough to spur your father into action._

So he ran up to the Barbie girl, leaned against the bar next to her and said:

"Hi there. Ted Mosby, Architect…-ural professor" The last part was sort of an afterthought. Really, he could have planned his opening line a little better. It didn't go down particularly well with the blonde.

"Hi there. Not interested."

_Big hint there, kids._

"That's an unusual name!" Ted persevered. Bless. "Where are you from?"

"Look, my brother runs this place, so I really don't wanna get chucked out. Stop pestering me."

_She really wasn't being very cryptic._

"Oh! You're Carl's sister? I'm one of his regulars! Wasn't your name like… uh… Sss- Sssaaa- Ssssarah?" He guessed hopefully.

_The look she gave him could have preserved a corpse. I should know._

"Sandra. From Chicago." She turned to look at him a little more. "One of his regulars, huh? Are you that loser that's constantly hitting on every woman in the bar?"

"Ah hah hah hah. No. That's Barney." He tried to change the subject back to her, but was cut off. "So, you've just blown in from the windy city then?"

_I found the Calamity Jane reference hilarious. She did not._

"No… I'm pretty sure Barney is the one that actually uses _inventive_ plays. You're the predictable one seeking a wife for 2.5 kids, right?"

_Obviously he was._

"Uh… okay, you caught me. Can I buy you a drink anyway?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well, a student should never say no to a free drink – " Ted's eyes lit up "– but no."

_There was just no way he could salvage the situation if even an eternally-broke student wouldn't accept a drink from him. Right?_

"But what if this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship culminating in the perfect white wedding and two amazing kids and a dog?" Ted pleaded.

"Fine. I'll have a martini." Sandra said.

"_Wait, what?" Leia blinked._

"_How did he manage that?" Luke wondered._

Ted grinned. "One martini please Carl-os!"

Carl jumped at the sound of his name, then gave Ted and Sandy an odd look.

"You're buying her a drink. _You?_"

"Now trust me Carl, I know all about protective older brother vibes, but you do not have to worry about me!"

Carl tried not to smirk. "Yeah, I know… Here ya go, Sandy." He handed his sister the martini and turned to clean a spotless glass. I believe this may have been so he didn't witness what happened next and have to throw someone out of the bar.

Ted leant in towards Sandy. "So, Sandra – "

SPLASH

"…You're _really_ not interested, huh." Ted accepted defeat fairly graciously. By that, I mean he slunk back to the bar before she could get another drink to throw in his face. He slumped into his chair, alcohol dripping from his eyebrows, and sighed. "She wasn't the one, guys."

"We heard." Lily said, patting his arm. "You'll find her one day, Ted. Be patient."

"You're probably right, but I'm sick of being patient. Why does the Universe never grant me a lucky break?" He sighed. I could kind of sympathise – goodness knew the Universe hadn't helped my love life lately.

"Um, I'm just going to go get a drink. I'll be right back." I said, sauntering towards the bar as casually as I could manage. I ordered a glass of water – kids, when you've seen what alcohol does to people's livers, you tend to only drink on special occasions. It also stops you from making a fool of yourself at parties.

But I'm getting off-topic.

"Hey, uh, Sandy, right?"

"That's me." She said, turning to look at me with interest. "Cute accent - you a Brit?"

"Er, yes. I was just wondering – y'know, randomly – if you'd mind cutting that guy a break? From what I hear, he's a really nice guy. He's even helping Robin plan a wedding."

"Wow. Well, it's sweet of you to try and brighten up his day, but I'm not interested in him. I mean, a wedding planner? He's girly, but not girly enough if you catch my drift. You, on the other hand…" She looked me up and down appreciatively. "You seem pretty interesting."

_Kids, I finally understood how your Uncle John felt about people getting confused over his heterosexuality: baffled and slightly wrong-footed._

"Uh, well, thanks. But I don't – I mean, you know, I, um, I'm not a lesbian. Sorry. But I'm sure you'll find someone lovely." Thankfully Carl gave me a glass of water and a look that blasted 'protective big brother vibes' in an unmistakable way. "Thanks. Um. Bye, then, Sandy."

With that, I returned to the booth. Well, okay, the Universe _had_ tried to hand me a romantic opportunity, but frankly it shouldn't have mixed up my requests and Ted's!

Perched at the opposite end of the booth from Ted, who – strangely, given that he was a professor, not a student as I had first assumed – was arguing that his boots were a valid style choice, I was the only one facing the bar straight on when Marshall and Lily did some automatic high-five thing and knocked an empty beer glass to the floor. It shattered loudly, but that wasn't the odd thing.

What caught my attention was the way that everyone in the room turned towards the source of the noise… save for the waitress and the bartender. Instead of looking towards the booth, both of them flinched and looked towards the window. Carl was halfway to ducking under the bar before he realised what had happened and emerged with a sheepish smile on his face. Sandy stared at him. Evidently she hadn't missed his odd behaviour either.

I wondered what was making him (and the waitress) so jumpy. Maybe he expected his ex to come around and wreck the bar to spite him, and had taken her into his confidence? That seemed logical, but it didn't explain why his sister reacted normally. Surely she'd have known if something like that was going on? Although she was from out of town…

Before I could complete my train of thought, Marshall asked for my opinion on Wookiis and I was drawn into a fun discussion of old sci-fi films.

The odd behaviour of the bar staff was put to the back of my mind, but the next day I was forcibly reminded of the strange events I'd witnessed at MacLaren's.

We'll get to that soon, kids. That was the last day of normality – or rather, what passed for normality in New York City – that I got during my 'holiday'. Well, it was nice while it lasted…

xxx

_Meanwhile, at a McDonald's in an airport terminal, your Uncle Shock and Uncle John were reunited at last._

"Was it too much to ask for you to just stay put for a couple of weeks? Didn't you see my post-it note?"

"I go wherever the work takes me, John, you know that. And yes, I distinctly remember burning one of those foul yellow adhesive memos in an experiment on Thursday."

"Typical. So you're on a case?"

"Yes."

"What's it about, then?"

"Eve hasn't told me yet."

"Who's Eve…?"

Eve, or Anthea as she was known to John, arrived with a Happy Meal for Sherlock and a pathetically wilted salad for herself.

"Should've known. Hello Anthea."

"Hi."

"So, will you tell us about the case?"

"Case? Oh, the 'case'. Right. It was a ruse to make Sherlock stop moping and get out of the flat. Mycroft was… concerned." She smiled wickedly. "I, however, do have some things to see to. I'll be in touch, boys."

John nodded absently. "Yeah, bye." Eve/Anthea briefly glanced back at him, then left and hailed a cab at the outskirts of the terminal bus bay.

"I can't believe Mycroft tricked me. Me!" Sherlock muttered angrily.

"Nor can I. Since when do you eat Happy Meals, anyway?" John grinned, his amusement at Sherlock's disgruntled expression more than making up for the inconvenience of having to come and pick him up.

"They're sufficiently filling without having enough nutritional value to slow down my thought processes. I eat them sparingly on account of the unhealthy nature of fast food. What does it matter to you?"

"No reason. I wondered if maybe you got them for the little plastic toys." John managed to keep a completely straight face, even when Sherlock glared at him.

"Very funny, John. I'm stuck here with nothing to do until Mycroft sees fit to pay my way home – what am I meant to do now?" He grumbled.

"Well, you could always come and meet my cousin Rob and the rest of the wedding party." John sighed. "But I guess that'd be a bit boring for you, right?"

Sherlock, who had been just about to point that out, reconsidered. There really was nothing better for him to do, at least until he got hold of a newspaper to check for suspicious deaths.

"Not at all. You've met my brother, why shouldn't I meet your family? Besides, you and Rob get along quite well – you have a mutual enthusiasm for watching sports, you both enjoy the adrenaline rush of being on the battlefield, and I imagine you took his coming out pretty well as you're so accepting of his marriage to… Barnabus Stinson, wasn't it? So I'm sure that meeting Rob will be interesting."

"Okay, you got all that because…?"

"Lingering scent of pizza. You eat pizza when you watch live sports, but only when you have company. Presumably it's too expensive or too decadent when you're alone. Conclusion: you ate pizza recently – possibly this morning – and you are staying with your cousin Rob, so would have probably had access to his TV. If he let you choose the channel out of politeness, he wouldn't have bothered staying with you and eating the pizza – which he must have done, or you wouldn't have ordered it – so he must enjoy watching sports."

"Makes sense, but what about the 'battlefield'? Rob's never seen action."

"Paint flecks on your shoes. You don't paint. If there was decorating going on, it wouldn't have affected just your shoes. Where do you get paint and John Watson in the same place? Not many options. I'm going with paintball because it would appeal to you and would be the sort of thing I imagine people do to entertain relatives from out of town they have to amuse. If Rob enjoys paintballing, he gets the same adrenaline kick as we do on a case." Sherlock looked at John as if daring him to contradict him, and John shrugged.

"Okay, full marks so far, but what's this about Rob's coming out?"

"Robin Scherbatsky and Barnabus Stinson were the names on the invitation. It was on the mantelpiece; I do pay attention to the mail, you know – "

"Yes Sherlock, but you stab it to the wall!"

Sherlock ignored him. "Two masculine forenames, getting married in New York, it doesn't take a genius to work out that Rob is gay."

"Wrong."

"What?" Sherlock stared at him in disbelief.

"You're wrong. Rob's dad always wanted a boy, but he got a daughter instead. Regardless, he called her Robin Junior. We used to call her RJ, but then she went through this weird Canadian pop phase and people kept shouting her name when she went to the shopping centre. She got to hate that, and insisted we called her Rob. I think she grew out of that, but the nickname just stuck."

"This is like Clara all over again…" Sherlock muttered, his speech slurring a little. He frowned. "Dr. Watson, have you drugged me?"

John's face swam before Sherlock's eyes. "Maybe just a little. Consider it an experiment."

_Kids, your Uncle Shock woke up the next morning fully clothed on the spare bed in your Aunt Robin's house, with no jet lag, and a face covered in sticky-notes, which read as follows:_

"_Happy meals are not part of a balanced diet"_

"_Eat some of the cereal in the top left-hand cupboard"_

"_Meet me in MacLaren's Bar when awake, if convenient."_

"_If inconvenient come anyway"_

_And finally: "How do you like it when it's YOUR coffee? _–_JW"_

_He was not amused._

_Uncle John was. He has photos._

xxx

Back at MacLaren's, Barney started explaining his theory on AAAA – American Anglophilic Accent Occurrence.

"But 'occurrence' is spelt with an O!" I protested.

"Not when I say it." _He totally said it with an O. _"Anyway, AAAA makes Brits completely irresistible to 93% of the American population."

"You just made that up." Marshall, Ted and Lily chorused. I got the feeling I was an outsider failing to participate in an in-joke.

"Yes, that's right, 93%. I can prove it." Barney stared straight at me. "Molly, together you and I are going to pick up everyone in this bar."

"W-what?"

"Yes – first MacLaren's and then… the world." Barney said, standing up with a dramatic flourish, nearly smacking John in the face as he approached the booth.

"Really?" John asked, looking intrigued.

"Ah, John, even better! Bro, we're going to demonstrate the AAAA principle."

"AAAO," I muttered. No-one listened to me. "John, I though you were picking up Sherlock?"

"I did, he fell asleep on the way back. Clearly a bad case of jetlag, so I left him at Robin's and came here." John looked oddly smug about this, but I only found out why when John wrote about it on his blog.

"Watch this," said Barney, completely oblivious to the change of subject. He strolled over to a skinny Lebanese girl. "Hey there sweetheart, want to see my Tower of London?"

SPLASH

_Really, it was a wonder that anyone actually finished the drinks they bought in MacLaren's!_

Barney, dripping wet, returned. "Okay, not the best example, my English accent just isn't good enough. John, back me up!"

"Er, it's not that bad…"

"What? No, not _my_ accent – use _yours_!" He angled John towards a girl with short red hair pulled into a messy side-ponytail. "Go forth and be awesome!" Barney said, shoving him into her. John and the red-head collided.

SPLASH

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" John said, handing her a napkin from the side of the bar. "Let me buy you one to replace it."

The red-head smiled, mopping the remnants of her Shirley Temple off her top. "No need – hey, are you from England? I've always wanted to go to London…"

"Really? I actually live in London."

"No way! You have to tell me all about it. I'm Misty, by the way."

"John, nice to meet you…"

"The AAAA, ladies and gentlemen." Barney walked over to them and abruptly pulled John away from his new friend. "She's underage, bro… and the guy in the red baseball cap looks like he wants to electrocute you. I'm doing you a favour here." He added, cutting off John's muttered protests.

I watched, fascinated. Maybe finding an American boyfriend wouldn't be that difficult after all… Hopefully bikers were in the 93%.

xxx

_Meanwhile, somewhere over the Atlantic..._

Rory sat rigidly in the cramped seat. His knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. And Out.

"Nervous flyer?" Came a male Irish voice from Rory's right. Rory glanced at the small, plain-looking man with the manic grin.

"Uh... yeah." Rory mumbled. "I have this... friend. He... flies a plane really well. I mean _really_ well. And once you've flown with him, these commercial flights don't seem as safe... And my wife isn't much help..." Rory gestured to the snoring red-head on his left.

The grin dropped from the Irish man's face.

"Clearly." He said coldly.

Rory waited to see if the man would continue the conversation or just stare creepily at him some more.

After a few seconds it became obvious that he was going with the creepy staring plan. Right.

"So, um, are you going to the States to see family, or just for a holiday, or...?"

"Business, actually. An… associate of mine hasn't been meeting his quotas, so I'm going over to sort him out." The Irishman said, choosing his words carefully.

"Oh, I see. My wife and I are going over to see... our... daughter..." Rory trailed off. It was clear that the Irish man wasn't listening. Instead, he had put down his tray-table and taken a Sharpie and a flier from his bag. Rory watched in horrified fascination as the man began to doodle mushroom clouds on the flier while humming the _Star Spangled Banner_ slowly.

Rory turned his head to look directly in front of him again. Breathe in. And out.

"Everything okay, Rory?" His wife enquired when she woke up and saw his pasty face and sweaty palms.

"Fine! Everything's fine!" Rory blurted.

He would not want to be in "MacLaren's Bar" when that Irish guy landed.

**A/N And, next chapter… Well, you'll just have to wait and see. Review please! It inspires us!**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N Sorry for the delay in posting this, real life got in the way! We hope you enjoy this chapter, which admittedly Sherlock has taken over. Well, as Molly said, he does tend to do that to any story…**

_Kids, your Uncle Shock had definitely had better days than this one. At least when I first met him, he was somewhat civil _–_ that's a whole other story, kids _–_but when he first met Ted, Marshall and Robin he was… grouchy._

_And not like your father when he hasn't had his coffee. I mean craving nicotine, taciturn, glaring at the world and generally emitting an aura of "I'm sulking, piss off."_

Sherlock strode into the bar, avoiding eye contact, physical contact or human interaction.

It took me a minute to realise he was in a mood, but John picked up on it instantly. Sherlock sat down next to him with a huff.

"The cereal you left me had marshmallows in it, John. _Marshmallows._ They stick to the roof of your mouth and provide no nutritional content whatsoever. Also, they are not a breakfast food."

Ted stared at him, then looked away before Sherlock could notice. "Er, John… who is this?"

"This is my flatmate, Sherlock. He's also visiting New York for a while. Sherlock, this is Ted, and this is my cousin Rob. Her friend Marshall will be back in a minute."

"Hi Sherlock!" I said, possibly a little too brightly. No acknowledgement. I decided to pipe down after that – being rejected so obviously kind of knocks your confidence.

Sherlock looked up briefly, scanned Ted's slightly bewildered expression, and went back to staring at the beer stains on the table. Ted smiled, but it looked forced. It was obvious he didn't know what to make of –

"Sherlock Holmes? Oh wow, this is awesome! It is such an honour to meet you!" _When your Uncle Marshall fanboys, he does it properly. _"John, you should've told me he was coming too!" Marshall, having just returned from the men's room, was overwhelmed by the presence of a 'celebrity'.

"Wait, you're that guy John keeps telling me about?" Rob raised an eyebrow. "The psychic one?"

Sherlock turned to John and said slowly: "You tell people I'm a _psychic_? The blog was bad enough, but this…"

"No! No, he's not psychic. He's a consulting detective, that's all."

"All?" Sherlock looked offended. "I _invented_ the position!"

"Okay, fine, not a professional psychic, but I'm sure you told me he like, glanced at you, and then told you all about your life, right down to the whole Harry thing, wasn't it?" Robin said, clearly sceptical.

"Right. He can tell things about people. Not with ESP or anything, just by observation." John explained.

"Deductions." Sherlock added, before going back to staring at the same spot on the table. It hadn't changed.

"Like what?" Rob probed.

"Huh?" John was lost. "Um, well, this one time there was a green ladder and – "

"No, I mean – " She turned to Sherlock. "Deduct me."

"That's an invalid sentence. The word is 'deduce'."

"Okay, whatever, deduce me."

Sherlock sighed, as if it was a request not really worthy of his time and energy, but he would fulfil it for his audience's sake anyway.

John told me later he'd been dying to do that in front of new people, because Scotland Yard had stopped being impressed by it.

"As I said to John earlier, you get along quite well with him as you bond over watching sports and you both enjoy the adrenaline rush of handling firearms. I will not repeat how I came to these deductions, if you are desperate to enquire as to my thought processes, I'm sure that John will indulge you, although he does have a propensity to over-use phrases such as 'amazing' and 'brilliant'." Sherlock paused for breath. "From meeting you in person, I can also tell that you are a newsreader who has issues with her father and you have recently decided not to call off the marriage when your ex visited."

He stopped abruptly. This may have been because John kicked him under the table, or because he'd run out of steam.

"…Not good?" He murmured. John shook his head, mouthing 'no.' Sherlock made eye contact with Robin, presumably with some mental effort. "Sorry. I tend to ramble on a bit. Ignore that."

"How on Earth did you get all that?" Robin said, no longer spellbound by the monologue.

"Ask John, he knows my methods. I'm going to get a drink, excuse me." With that, he headed towards the bar.

"John, how did he –?"

"Beats me."

"But he said – "

"Yes, he says a lot of things. Unfortunately I haven't figured out how to stop him without resorting to duct tape." John rolled his eyes.

"How did he know about Kevin?" Robin asked.

_Kids, we found out soon enough, but we had a few guesses at the time:_

"Maybe he smelt Kevin's cologne on you – did you hug him or anything?"

"No, Kevin wasn't wearing cologne."

"Maybe he could tell from your behaviour."

"I wasn't actively signalling that I had cold feet yesterday!"

"…Maybe not."

"Maybe he's psychic!"

We all stared at Marshall.

"What? I'm just throwing it out there!"

_By the time Sherlock returned _–_ non-alcoholic, pastel pink cocktail, complete with little umbrella, in hand _–_ we were completely stumped._

He sighed.

"Honestly, John I expected better."

"Says the guy drinking a prissy cocktail." Ted mumbled grouchily. He hadn't had his coffee that morning.

"How did you do it?" Robin pressed.

"Fine. Your lipstick is a shade too dark for this time of day, and is applied more thickly than if you were just coming out to meet friends. It's been recently applied, as some of it has rubbed off on the glass you've been drinking from. You're also wearing foundation around the edges of your lips – nice job, by the way, it's barely perceptible but some of it has been washed off at the edges by the whiskey. This shows faint bruising underneath. No split lip, so it can't have been a punch, and recently re-applied lipstick, I'm going for kissing. But not just any kissing – desperate, slightly forceful, kissing. You're about to get married, so your fiancé wouldn't need to be so desperate, ergo someone else was involved. You keep playing with your engagement ring, a classic indicator of pre-wedding doubts. Commitment issues go hand in hand with 'daddy issues'. Cold feet and desperate kisses from someone who wasn't your boyfriend – a stranger wouldn't leave any lingering doubts about the wedding, but this person did, so probably an old flame you cared deeply for." Sherlock paused for a moment, taking a sip of his drink. Everyone waited with baited breath.

"As for your profession, your fingertips have numerous minor paper cuts on them, some old, some as recent as this morning. No symptoms of repetitive strain injury in your hands, so you don't type regularly, that rules out secretary. Your nails are perfectly manicured – evenly on both hands, so you didn't do it yourself, and your hair and make-up is impeccable. It bears all the hallmarks of a professional job – for example, no bronzer lines at the jawbone, which is common if it's DIY make-up. So, you didn't do it, or you did some of it and then someone else touched it up for you later. So, what job involves regularly handling paper, keeping up appearances and professional make-up artists? Television presenter. More specifically, a newsreader." Sherlock looked around at his audience, satisfied that he had created enough of an impact.

"And for the record, Ted, I'm not so intimidated by other people's opinions that I'll change my order just to avoid fitting a misinformed stereotype." Ted tried to meet his gaze, but Sherlock's steely expression could easily outlast anyone else's glares, save perhaps Mycroft's. Ted suddenly discovered a newfound fascination with the beer stain that Sherlock had been examining earlier, and directed his attention towards that.

_Your Uncle Shock can be rather intimidating when he wants to be… despite holding a drink that even I would dismiss as too feminine._

Marshall was staring at him, awestruck, while Robin nodded slowly.

"Okay. That makes sense. God knows it sounded crazy at first, but when you talk us through it, I can follow it. Don't you ever make mistakes, though?"

"Occasionally. I try not to make a habit of it."

"Modest as ever, Sherlock…" John smirked.

"Will you do me next?" Marshall asked eagerly. Robin, Ted, John and I stared at him until the double entendre sunk in. "I mean, deduce me, that is!"

"I feel like this is becoming a parlour trick… Very well then. You – "

"Wait, wait! I got married in 2007, had a baby last year – it's a boy, he's very beautiful – I _strongly_ believe in the supernatural and aliens and psychics – dude, I'm totally onto you! And my favourite animal is the Loch Ness creature! Hah! Try and deduce something original now! Lawyered!" Marshall babbled. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I accept your challenge." The Americans looked vaguely freaked out. I wondered if John had noticed how similar the phrase was to the one Barney had used the other night. "You mentioned your wife, but what you neglected to mention was that before her, you had very limited sexual experience."

"Oh my God! How did you know that?" Marshall cried.

_Well, there was no point in denying it, especially with Ted there._

"Your socks." Sherlock replied simply. "They're well over ten years old, and they're branded _Star Wars_ merchandise. Women don't tend to find _Star Wars_ socks attractive as they indicate obsessive tendencies and a fascination with a fictional universe designed with eight-year-olds in mind. This shows that your wife is one of the few exceptions to this rule, and since she has not brought it up, you were unaware of this. That, coupled with the age of the socks suggests that you have had them since early adolescence when boys reach their sexual maturity, such as it is."

Marshall looked like he was going to go on another rant about how awesome Sherlock was, but then John cut him off.

"Don't bother, he doesn't appreciate the effort it takes to find original compliments." Sherlock shot him a look.

"Regardless, Marshall, your wife would not have mentioned the socks because you are ridiculously co-dependent, and she wouldn't want to upset you. She knows how much you love them after all, keeping them in such good condition after all these years. And before you interrupt to ask how I know, there's your shower gel, the lack of crumpling in your shirt and the fact that you're constantly toying with your phone." Sherlock stopped to drink and Marshall jumped right in and interrupted anyway.

"But how does any of that –?"

"Your shower gel is distinctly floral, a trait not common in masculine products." He paused, leaned towards Marshall, and sniffed. "It's honeysuckle and jasmine. Definitely nothing like that on the male market. So, you borrow your wife's shower gel. Why? You're a lawyer, if I interpret your previous statement correctly, so you can afford your own shower gel. If you were absent-minded, you would not have plenty of aftershave, which is the underlying scent of alcohol, and you would probably have small nicks from slap-dash shaving, which you do not. You use your wife's shower gel because the smell reminds you of her. You can't stand to be away from her because you are ridiculously co-dependent, a fact re-enforced by your perfectly ironed shirt – her doing no doubt, co-dependence is a two-way street after all – and also because she has texted you no less than three times in the last two minutes. Nothing important either, because you can answer with a smiley face – "

"Lily thinks that you're awesome by the way, she's coming downstairs so that you can deduce her next!"

"Thus," Sherlock continued without pause. "The communication is purely phatic – for social rather than informational purposes – and since you just said that she is _upstairs_ this indicates a much higher level of co-dependence than my previous estimate."

"Doesn't he text you from the same room?" I muttered to John, who tried to keep a straight face.

"Alhough I must admit, I've not seen many marriages as co-dependent as yours lasting as long. Kudos." He finished his drink. "However, 'lawyered' is not a word." Sherlock said pompously.

"That is the coolest thing EVER!" Marshall enthused. Ted, nettled by seeing his best friend being won over to the 'dark side', tried to catch Sherlock out.

"Okay, but what if John had told you all that stuff?"

"He didn't."

"But he could have! You can't prove that you figured all that stuff out by yourself." Ted insisted, sticking to his argument.

"You're right. I can't prove that." Sherlock admitted. Ted grinned with smug self-satisfaction, but it didn't last for long. "I can give you plenty of evidence for other things, though."

"Like what?"

"Your career and love life, or rather lack of one. You have a distinctive trait found in architects: the slanting wrists resulting from resting them on the drawing-board when you're designing. Even when there's no slope in front of you, your hands naturally relax into this pose. But an architect wouldn't have your legs." Ted stared at Sherlock. "You have very well-defined calf muscles, from pacing during lectures no doubt, given your jacket."

"My jacket?"

"_Only_ professors wear tweed jackets as everyday casual clothing. This may have an impact on the number of women willing to talk to you in bars, as you subconsciously remind them of their university – I mean, 'college' – professors. In some extreme cases, perhaps even their fathers. That's not to say you haven't made a valiant attempt to attract the attention of the opposite sex, as shown by your use of scent. You're wearing Lynx _and _Old Spice – one indicates confidence, but _both_ indicates desperation bordering on hysteria."

Robin turned to Ted. "Didn't Barney give you that?"

"Yeah, he recommended Old Spice and got me some from one of his guys."

"Ditch both, try Only the Brave by Diesel. I've observed it has a higher success rate than most other brands." Sherlock said. John stared at him, but Sherlock either didn't notice or more likely wasn't bothered. "Further evidence for your chronic single status can be found in your use of hair products, your manicure – it's clear polish but still noticeably shiny – your habit of staring at the various women in the bar while I'm talking, and your breath. It's minty fresh, just in case you manage 'to pull'."

"…Whoa."

"Aw, you're teaching him slang!" I cooed, grinning at John. Sherlock trying to speak casually was the most adorable thing since kittens with bow ties…

_What? Bow ties are cool._

"I try," said John.

Just then, Aunt Lily and Uncle Barney –

_Actually, you know what, kids? I think we need to rewind a bit and see what Aunt Lily and Uncle Barney had been up to while we were talking to Sherlock _–_ well, while we were _listening _to Sherlock…_

Barney, waiting for a glass of Scotch, leant against the bar. Finally, a drink to take the edge off now that Marvin had settled down for his nap. Being an uncle could be exhausting. Something caught his eye. It was a dapper guy in a pinstriped suit, who was perched at the end of the bar closest to the door.

"Nice suit, bro – that Westwood?" Barney said. The man looked impressed.

"Why yes, it is. Dolce and Gabbana, I see… Classic." He had a melodic Irish accent.

"Thanks. I don't get why someone would wear _just _a suit jacket, you know? It's just not right." Barney continued, ecstatic to have met a kindred spirit.

"Mhmm" The man purred, eyeing him up and down. "And they do _so much _for one's figure – it's astounding how good a suit can make someone look."

"I know, right!" Barney cried, completely oblivious. "My friends just don't get it!"

"Speaking of looking good in suits – " The Irishman began, leaning towards Barney, with a predatory gleam in his eye.

"Oh hey Lily!" Barney called, waving as she entered the bar. The Irishman glared hatefully at the shiny ring he had just noticed on Barney's finger.

"Why are they all _married_?" He muttered bitterly, glancing at Lily (and this time actively seeking out the rings on her fingers). "And what _is_ it with red-heads?"

"Hey Barney." Lily puffed, having just jogged down the stairs as quietly as she could manage so as not to wake Marvin. "Did you order me a Tonic-with-no-gin?" She asked.

"Uh… no, because that's gross!" Barney replied, rolling his eyes.

"Oh here, let me!" The Irish man offered, leering at the couple. "Oh Ka-a-arl!" He sing-songed.

The barman turned round, caught sight of the Westwood-man and paled.

"One Tonic-with-no-gin and another Margarita for me, please."

"S-sure. Whatever you say." Carl mumbled.

"You know, if you and your _lovely wife_ ever felt like spicing up your love life…" The man began.

"Oh no no no no no. No. Barney is _not_ my husband." Lily said quickly. "That's my husband over there." She said pointing to Marshall, who could just be seen beyond Sherlock's curls. "…Although he probably wouldn't be interested in what you're offering either."

"What about you, hot stuff?" The man said, turning back to Barney, suddenly much happier – no doubt because he might get the blond man all to himself.

"Sorry, bro, but I'm engaged to the brunette chick next to him."

"I see." His voice was icy. His smile had disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"Here, one margarita and one tonic-with-no-gin." Carl said, breaking up the awkward moment and gingerly placing the glasses on the bar as if scared they might break or spill at any moment.

"Thanks." They all chorused, then Lily and Barney hurried away to the booth.

"Marvin's just fallen asleep." Lily announced.

"About time too…" Barney grumbled, but he couldn't help giving a half-smile at the thought of the baby upstairs.

"Carl was acting kind of jumpy, what d'you think was up with – "

"He's sleeping with the waitress." Sherlock said in an undertone. Barney heard him.

"Really? Damn! Remind me to give him a high five…" Barney said, clearly impressed.

"Did you bring the baby monitor?" Marshall asked. Lily fished it out of her handbag with a flourish. "Awesome. Lily, this is Sherlock Holmes, _best detective ever_, Sherlock, this is my wife Lily, and that's Barney. Go on, make a deduction…" Marshall prompted him. Sherlock turned to analyse the newcomers.

"Escort." Sherlock said abruptly.

"What?"

"_Yeah, Mum, what the hell?"_

"_Sh!"_

"Clearly a professional escort."

_Kids, what happened next was kind of inevitable, given what he'd just implied. Your Uncle Shock really needed a better understanding of when to be tactful. The following few moments happened in a blur, and I was so confused I had no idea what to do…_

"WHAT? My wife isn't a prostitute!" Marshall roared, punching Sherlock in the face without a second thought. Sherlock collapsed sideways, knocking his head on the table as he went down. John rushed over to him, glaring at Marshall.

"So much for you being his number one fan… Are all Americans this violent, or is it just you who has no impulse control?" John growled, helping Sherlock to his feet. "Sherlock, you alright?"

"Bit dizzy, it's nothing – " Sherlock swayed; John pulled his friend's arm around his shoulders and moved a few steps away from the booth, with Sherlock leaning heavily on him.

"Rob, I know that was also Sherlock's fault, and I apologize on his behalf. Let's just give everyone a bit of a chance to cool off, shall we?"

"Good idea. I'll see you in a bit, John. Sorry about the, er…" Robin trailed off awkwardly, making a vague gesture encompassing Marshall and Sherlock's chair.

"Yeah." John, serving as Sherlock's prop and guide, helped him out of the bar.

_I really wanted to follow them, but things were awkward enough as it was, and someone had to smooth things over. Besides, Lily was crying into my shoulder, so I stayed in the bar with them and then watched a movie_ _with Lily… The main character, Alex Fletcher, was like the male version of Robin Sparkles. I felt dirty afterwards._

xxx

_Later that night…_

The bar was dark. Carl had closed early and sent everyone home – it didn't matter, the only ones who would notice were his regular customers and they had left after Marshall had punched that British guy with the girly drink.

Not that there was anything wrong with being British and girly. In fact, Carl –

A set of well-manicured fingers slid through his hair and slowly down his neck to massage his shoulders.

"Oh Carl. It's so good that we can be alone at last." There was a high-pitched giggle. "Ooh I feel like such a cliché! Tell me that I'll never get away with this! Go on! It'll be fun."

Carl swallowed thickly as the fingers moved back up his neck to rub his scalp. "Y-you'll never get away with this…"

"Oh, but I _will_, Carl. Because – get this – you're going to _help me_ get away with it. You think you can make Daddy proud again, Carl?" Crooned the Irish voice from right beside Carl's ear. Carl nodded hesitantly, then gasped as the fingers gripped his hair tightly and yanked his head back. "Because Daddy has _not _ been happy with you recently, darling, and you _won't like it _when Daddy's angry."

"Y-yes… I… I'll help."

"You'll help – what?"

"I-I'll help you… Daddy." The fingers loosened their grip and began stroking his hair flat again.

"Good boy."

**A/N Carl is in deep, deep trouble… Stay tuned to find out what happens next! (And please leave us a review! It would make us very happy! Can you spot the random references?)**

**Bonus scene:**

**Ted stared at him, then looked away before Sherlock could notice. "Er, John… who is this?"**

**Sherlock stood suddenly, his coat and scarf flapping dramatically in a breeze that seemed to come out of nowhere - as if someone was using a wind machine just out of shot. "They call me," He paused to flip his curls "The Deductor!"**

**Everyone gasped and Ted fainted from awesome overload.**

**"But how do your powers work, Deductor?" Robin simpered.**

**Sherlock turned to her and pointed with one outstretched hand, like he was a character in a video game making an objection. "DEDUCTION POWERS ACTIVATE!"**

**Robin squealed and joined Ted on the floor.**

**Marshall grabbed Sherlock's outstretched hand. "I can divorce my wife by tomorrow. I'm a lawyer."**

**"I consider myself married to my powers - and my responsibility - because one is a natural consequence of the other." Sherlock said, turning his face away from the giant man on his knees. "We can never be together!"**

**"Nooo!" Marshall wailed, flinging his hand to his forehead and leaning backwards in a dramatic manner.**

**John sighed. "Really, Sherlock? Do you _have_ to do this every time you make a deduction?"**

**"Yes."**

**THE END - OR IS IT?**

**FIND OUT IN THE NEXT THRILLING INSTALMENT OF - _MYCROFT'S ANGELS!_**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N Two updates in a week? This is madness! (No. This – is – SPARTAAA!) Don't get used to it, dear readers, this will not be a regular occurrence. Although reviews may fuel the fires of our creative minds… *hint, hint* **

**We would also like to take this opportunity to bestow our thanks upon the wonderful Mord-Sith Rahl who has faithfully reviewed every chapter so far, and made Yellow Emerald's day by getting the _Music & Lyrics_ reference in the last chapter. Please keep reviewing – you are the Mrs. Hudson to our Watson and Holmes! ~ Legendberry **

_Kids, the night your Uncle Shock got punched... again... Uncle John took him for coffee – because New York caters to their specific brand of caffeinated insomniac._

"How are you feeling now, Sherlock?" John asked, concerned.

The small café they were in was off-white and smelled greasy, but it served their purposes just fine. Also, John had been to worse places in London, and at least the large hairy man who owned this café (there was _always _a large hairy owner) had made an effort and worn a hairnet.

"Fine." Sherlock grumbled. His bad mood had returned when Marshall had killed his deduction-buzz. The headache wasn't helping matters.

John sighed. He reached over and poked at Sherlock's head. "Well, the swelling seems to have gone down a bit," He moved his fingers to pull open one of Sherlock's eyes. "And your pupils are focussing properly now."

Sherlock smiled softly. "Be careful, with all this face-touching, people will talk."

John grinned back at him, removing his hand from his friend's face. "People do little else."

They both sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. Then Sherlock cleared his throat and looked around at the ripped posters on the café walls.

"So... your cousin seems nice." He said awkwardly.

"You're just saying that because it's expected in these kinds of situations, aren't you?" John asked half-jokingly. Sherlock's mouth twitched into a lop-sided smile. "What do you _really _think of Rob?" John asked.

Sherlock could tell John was curious to hear his opinion of another member of the Watson family tree – he had asked the same question after Sherlock had met Harry for the first time. What Sherlock could not figure out was _why_ John was so concerned about Sherlock's opinion. He didn't care about what Sherlock thought of his many and varied girlfriends, so why family made so much more of a difference was beyond him.

"_Aww! Poor Uncle Shock, he just doesn't get it!"_

"_Don't worry, Leia, he gets it when he introduces John to Mummy. But that's another story."_

"I would suggest your cousin needs new friends."

John snorted. "I think she might say the same to me. What were you playing at, calling her best friend an escort?"

"Her fiancé is her best friend?"

"What?"

"What?"

"Hello, boys!" Came a smug female voice.

John and Sherlock glared at the intruder. Anthea – or Eve, as Sherlock knew her – _or Louise, as I know her_ – was standing, perfectly poised and with a neckline so plunging, it would have made a page-three girl blush. Neither man was impressed.

The large hairy man came over and dumped two steaming cups of coffee onto the table. Sherlock and John looked back towards their coffee, completely ignoring Mycroft's assistant.

"Er, boys?"

Sherlock and John simultaneously reached for their coffees and took a sip.

"Not bad coffee, this." John said.

"It's quite good, isn't it?"

"...Boys?"

"Oh, hello Eve. Didn't see you there." Sherlock said, without turning to acknowledge her.

"Mm-hm. Anyway, you're alive, I see. Mycroft will be relieved."

"What? Why? Did something happen?"

"You didn't answer his texts."

Sherlock frowned. "John, where is my phone?" He asked.

John had the decency to look embarrassed. "Er..." He produced the phone from his pocket. "I didn't want you sleeping on it."

Sherlock glared, then huffed and reached out for the phone. John handed it over, and Sherlock began composing a text to Mycroft.

**Brother dear, please refrain from sending a babysitter after me any time you lose track of my whereabouts.**

"Well, that clears up that mystery." Anthea said, scrolling and clicking away at her Blackberry.

**Found him. Dr. Watson had his phone. Your brother's fine, though his face is slightly bruised. Don't panic – he's as annoying as ever, so no real harm done.**

"And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids!" John said softly, taking a sip of his coffee.

"I wish you wouldn't reference that infernal show. It was bad enough that you bought me it for Christmas!" Sherlock glared at him.

"I thought you would like it! They solve mysteries, _we_ solve mysteries…"

"_We_ solve _crimes_, and correct me if I'm wrong, but we have never used a _talking dog_ to do so."

"Well, I was thinking of adopting a bull pup next Christmas." John said casually. Sherlock was taken aback.

"Oh God, no."

"Uh...boys?" Anthea interjected cautiously.

"It could be fun! We could train it as a sniffer dog!" John argued.

"No. What would Mrs. Hudson say? And my olfactory powers are quite sufficient." Sherlock countered.

"...Don't you care what I've been doing all day?" Anthea questioned them.

Sherlock gave her a withering look. "No. And Mycroft would never allow you to tell us anyway."

"Good thing he's not here then, isn't it?" Anthea replied. That got their attention.

"_Are_ you going to tell us?" John asked sceptically. Anthea smirked.

"No."

The boys sighed and turned back to their coffee.

"So why _did_ you call Lily a prostitute?" John asked Sherlock.

"What? The red-head isn't a prostitute, she's a 'kindergarten' teacher... or an artist, depending on whom you ask and when. Didn't you see the paint specks and grubby marks?"

"Then why did you say 'escort'?" John asked, confused.

"Hold on, Sherlock insulted a muggle?" Anthea asked, swinging a chair up to their table and sitting down attentively. "I have _got_ to hear this!"

Sherlock scowled. "It wasn't an insult! It was merely a statement of fact that was, apparently, misinterpreted by the majority of listeners."

"How so?"

"I was referring to her blond companion."

xxx

_Your Uncle Shock's theory would be put to the test in the early hours by none other than…_

Aunt Lily hammered on Uncle Barney's door with all the impatience of one of her kindergarten pupils.

"Hello? Barney? Open the door already!"

There was a sleepy groan from inside the apartment, and the door swung open to reveal Barney in a pair of tracksuit bottoms.

"What the hell, Lily? It's like four in the morning!"

"Well, I had to wait until Robin was out at work. Can I come in? We need to talk." Barney reluctantly opened the door for her, and she walked in and sat on the sofa. "I couldn't get to sleep, wondering why that British guy had thought I was… er… you know."

"Well, you _were_ wearing a very short skirt, Lily." Barney chuckled, but it was more nervous laughter than genuine amusement. He began pacing back and forth behind the sofa, not allowing Lily to get a good look at his expression.

"Then I realised…" Lily continued, ignoring his comment. "He never said my name. Or even 'she'. 'Clearly a professional escort' doesn't necessarily mean a woman, does it?"

"Uh, well, usually hookers are chicks. The male ones are more of James' division than mine."

"But not always, right? You should know, Barney – after all, it was you Sherlock was talking about, wasn't it?"

"That's ridiculous! As if I, Barney Stins– "

"But it's true. You've never once told us about your job, you change the subject whenever it comes up. Now, in all the years we've known each other, doesn't that seem a bit weird? Unless you had something to hide, of course. Something like this."

Barney laughed nervously. "Hahaha… that British guy's been rubbing off on you." Lily stared him down.

"You're avoiding the subject, Barney. As ever. But, if you've got nothing to hide, just answer this: what is your job?"

"I, uh," Barney stumbled, "I can't tell you because if I did, I'd have to kill you."

"Nice try, Barney, but if you were a spy you'd constantly use that fact to pick up girls."

"Damn it! Uh, I'm… I'm an 'input and output data flow specialist'."

"You're a what?"

"I make sure that important people get to important meetings and know important stuff."

"So you're a secretary."

"As if! No, I told you, I'm an input and output data flow specialist." Barney repeated.

"So, a secretary."

"No, look, it's kinda like a secretary, but also like a stockbroker. I'm constantly gambling on whether giving someone information will make them act in the company's best interests."

"So, a professional gossip."

"No, look – oh, never mind. This is why I don't try and explain it." Barney sighed in exasperation.

"So he was wrong, then? The detective? You don't sleep with people for a living?" Lily asked.

"Er, well, sometimes…" Barney trailed off and shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. "Uh, no."

"Barney!"

"It was nothing serious when I wasn't tied down, and I haven't done anything since I started dating Robin again, I swear! It was just a means to an end." Barney defended himself, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa.

"I had no idea… Why did you do it?" Lily said softly.

"It's not as bad as you'd think. I get paid ridiculous sums of money, go to lots of parties, and I get to - or rather, used to - sleep with hot business chicks. And with my sex drive, that's a real bonus."

"Ew! Hang on, isn't almost everyone in GNB a dude?"

"There's a guy for that. I mainly work with outsiders. You know, the media and business partners."

"O-kay. GNB hires 'escorts', and we never hear any news leaks about this?"

"That's where I come in. You'll notice I said input and _output_ specialist. I manage the way people report on the company too. I deal with their output, either by putting out – if you catch my drift – or through slightly more questionable methods." Barney looked even more uncomfortable, and stopped talking, realising he may have said too much.

"Questionable even by _your_ standards? This must be bad."

"It is, but I'm afraid I can't talk about that."

"So when you said that you'd have to kill me…" Lily began, visibly paling.

"God, no! Nothing like that! Just some extortion and blackmail – oh, crap."

"_What?"_

xxx

In the café, Anthea raised an eyebrow as Sherlock concluded his monologue on the mysterious escort/fiancé guy.

"So he's like a slutty Mycroft, then?" She asked. Sherlock winced at the mental image, but nodded.

"I can't believe you got that many deductions from such a quick look at him! That was incredible!" John enthused.

"It was nothing."

Anthea stood up. "Well, this _has_ been entertaining, but some of us have work to do."

"Okay, bye then." John said, finishing the last of his coffee.

"If you need me, I'm sure you'll find me." Sherlock said, waving her away dismissively.

Anthea glared at the back of John's head, infuriated that he wasn't even _trying_ to flirt with her any more. "Don't call me!" She said, affecting Sherlock's businesslike tone.

"I won't!" John called after her, completely missing her irritation.

"I prefer to text anyway." Sherlock muttered. He drank the remains of his coffee and stood up abruptly. "Let's get going, John. Places to be, people to see, and all that."

xxx

_Kids, I woke up that morning feeling pretty cheerful. I was young, free and single in one of the greatest cities on the planet. New York. The Big Apple was my oyster… wait, that sounds weird. The point is _–_ according to Lily's text _–_ she, Marshall and Marvin had gone to visit her dad, so I had the whole city at my fingertips. There was nothing holding me back; I could do anything I wanted to do. Be anyone I wanted to be. Maybe I would ride into the sunset on the back of a motorbike listening to rock music while the wind whipped through my hair…_

"_So what did you do, Mum?"_

_Well, I didn't know what to do first… _

_In fact, I just didn't know what to do. _

_So I went to MacLaren's._

_At nine in the morning._

_On a weekday._

…_It was not my proudest moment, kids._

I was about to head into the bar when I heard a conversation between the waitress – I thought her name was Wendy – and the bartender, Carl.

_Look, kids, I know people aren't meant to eavesdrop, but I was bored and your Uncle Shock does it all the time and nobody ever questions him._

"How's your sister, Carl?"

"She, uh, she's fine. Sandy's fine." His voice sounded strained. Maybe he'd been working late.

"What's she up to today?"

"Tourist stuff. She's doing the landmarks."

"I thought you two grew up in New York?"

"Uh… well, any excuse to spend her student loan money, you know? And besides, when you _live_ in a city you never do the touristy stuff."

"I suppose so." The waitress conceded. "Hey, wasn't it weird last night when Marshall punched that hot guy with the scarf? D'you think he was hitting on Lily?"

"No. You should've seen the drink he ordered. There's no way Marshall would feel threatened by that guy… Hey, uh, I was thinking of ordering take-out for dinner, you want to join me?"

"I dunno, maybe – "

_Boring. I put my hand on the door handle when I heard a voice calling me._

"Hey Molly!" Ted bounced up to me.

"Oh, hi. It's Ted, isn't it? What are you doing here?" I asked. At least there was someone to keep me company now.

"I was just, er…" He grinned sheepishly. "Okay, so this is going to sound kind of crazy, but I was just sneaking into Marshall and Lily's apartment so I could get hold of one of Lily's dresses – not for anything creepy, I mean, so I could get her measurements – "

_He sounded totally creepy._

"Right, 'cause that's not creepy at all!" I said, laughing nervously. "Hahahahaha…"

"Hahahahaha…" Ted joined in.

_Maybe I would have been better off alone after all._

"So, um, did you get her measurements?" I asked, more for the lack of other conversation topics coming to mind than for genuine curiosity.

"Yep!" Ted waved a piece of paper at me. It also had some more measurements written on it in neat, precise handwriting.

"And you need them because…?"

"I'm responsible for the dresses! As man of honour. And Robin really isn't interested in the bridesmaids' dresses. She said: 'as long as I don't get outshone, like the Duchess of Cambridge did by that girl with the ass, I'll be fine'. So I have to go dress shopping by myself, since even Lily has made up an excuse to avoid it."

"Oh, I see." _It wasn't that creepy after all. Just a little weird._ "I still need to find a dress, actually. I only have a black one, and that wouldn't do for the wedding."

Ted gasped. "You came halfway across the world for a wedding _without a dress?_" I nodded. _It was kind of short notice. _"That's it – you're coming with me!" He declared.

"Huh?" I said, eloquent as always in the presence of an attractive (ish) man.

"No arguments." Ted took hold of my arm and steered me outside to the pavement, where he hailed a cab.

_But kids, your granny did not raise a woman who would get into a car with a strange man who broke into people's apartments for dress measurements!_

"I really don't think – " I began to protest, pulling my arm away from him.

"Come on Molly, let's go to the mall!" Ted pleaded, and then he grinned. "You know… _you won't be sorry_!"

_Unfortunately, your granny could not have prepared for the magnetic allure of a man who could quote Robin Sparkles lyrics in everyday conversation._

Ted even started doing the dance.

I got in the cab.

And I joined Ted in doing the dance…

All the way to the mall.

Even better, if slightly bizarrely, the cab driver joined in whenever he hit a red light_. _

_New York was strange but wonderful._

**A/N Did you enjoy the faster update? Next chapter, things are going to go tits up. Just sayin'. Like seriously, bros, this will not end well for one unnamed character yet to be killed. This was the last appearance of one of these characters! **

**Review with guesses as to who's up for the chop? Whoever guesses correctly will have the next bonus scene dedicated to them … and yes, that means we're holding the next chapter to ransom until someone gets it right. (It's totally not an excuse for us taking ages to write it! Whatever gave you that idea?)**

**Completely useless clue: it's not Ted or Molly – they survive into the future.**

**_MYCROFT'S ANGELS _will return in the next chapter, to lighten the tone a bit. Stay tuned!**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N We're back, and this is where the madness begins. Are you ready? Warning for a character being dead and descriptions of the crime scene and body. If anyone has an issue with these warnings, PM us and we can give you a brief summary of the chapter! **

_Kids, I had a wonderful time dress shopping with your father. I know, it's not exactly the first date you'd expect, but technically we weren't going out with each other back then. Anyway, we returned to MacLaren's with our arms laden with shopping bags and giggling like schoolkids about the Beaver Song from the Space Teens show._

_The laughter wouldn't last for much longer, though._

We walked into the bar, Ted breezing past the 'closed' sign without a second thought while I trailed after him uncertainly. He mentioned that he used to live upstairs, so I figured it was fine.

The bar was utterly deserted, as it was only half past four in the afternoon. Regardless, the door was unlocked, so we put all the bags on the table in the booth; they were really quite heavy to carry around.

"I'm so glad we went with lilac – you were right, peach would have totally clashed with Lily's hair. Not to mention the dress we found for you!" Ted smiled at me with such goofy enthusiasm it was hard not to smile back.

"Well, I wouldn't have thought to try it on if I'd been there by myself, but you really outdid yourself to spot it!" I replied, grinning. The dress was pretty, very flattering, and incredibly it had been _on sale_, hidden away between two rails of overpriced ball gowns, so I had bought it at a fraction of the usual price. Ted really did have an eye for this sort of thing – I could see why Robin was letting him handle the complexities of planning the wedding.

"Aw, it was nothing." Ted struck a dramatic pose. "I mean, 'all in a day's work for Honour-Man…' er, that sounds kind of weird." He deflated back to his normal, slightly awkward stance. I giggled.

"No, I get it: Honour-Man, 'cause you're the 'man of honour', right?"

_Kids, I will never forget what happened next._

Ted said he thought there might be some spare scissors in the storage cupboard so we could remove the tags from the dresses.

He walked over to a door, and I followed him for lack of anything better to do.

He opened the door, and…

"_What?"_

"_What happened, Mum?"_

"_I… I, uh… Just give me a moment. It was quite a shock." Even for someone like me. As for Ted, well…_

He opened the door, and the bartender's corpse was slumped inside the cupboard. There was a rip in his shirt surrounded by bloodstains. His eyes were still wide open, staring right through us with this glassy frozen look of horror as he collapsed forwards, falling towards us without the door propping him up. He hit the floor with a sickening dull thud.

We stared down at him, rooted to the spot. Looking at his body, there was…

_Kids, I don't mean to frighten you, but…_

There was an awful lot of blood. A conservative estimate on my part said at least five pints had been sloshing around before it had started to congeal. It appeared to have stemmed from that rip in his shirt, which was just below the ribcage. From the size of the tear, it hadn't been a particularly small knife. It probably would have required two hands to drive a knife that big in so deep. The blow doubtless would have killed him in a matter of moments if it had reached the heart, but I'd have to do an autopsy to check if that was the case.

While I was making these medical observations, Ted was processing the fact that Carl was dead. When he'd realised that nobody was going to shout "April Fool's!" in midsummer or tell him he was on camera, he went very pale.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

I clamped my hands over my ears to protect them from the screams. I had to hand it to him; Ted had quite the pair of lungs… Even if his voice had risen to an unnaturally high pitch.

xxx

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!"

Lily stopped jiggling Marvin in her arms, and glanced up at Robin. Robin stared back at her. Marshall had frozen with his beer halfway to his mouth, and, although Barney had not moved, he had tensed to the point where Lily worried that he would pull a muscle.

"Are... we just going to ignore the Wilhelm Scream, or...?" Robin asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

"I guess we should go and see what it was..." Marshall agreed.

"Sounded like a chick getting hurt..." Barney added.

"Okay, that settles it." Lily declared. "Marshall and Robin will go and see if that woman is alright, and me and Barney will stay here with Marvin."

"What? Why does Barney get to stay here?" Robin demanded.

"Because you and Marshall are the ones who can hold your own in a fight!" Lily argued.

"Hey! I can hold my own!" Barney protested.

"When have you _ever_ held your own in a fight?"

"There was that one time..." Barney trailed off at the disbelieving looks on his friends' faces. "Okay, Robin and Marshall can go."

The matter at hand resolved, Robin pulled her handgun from her handbag, Marshall grabbed a frying pan from the kitchen, and the two of them edged carefully down the stairs towards the shrill, girly scream.

"_Wait, wait, wait! Aunt Robin carries a handgun in her bag?"_

"_Don't be silly. She carries two."_

When they reached the bar, they were shocked to find Carl lying in a pool of blood, and Ted lying a few feet away in the recovery position.

_They may have also been a little shocked to see me leaning over Carl's body._

Upon seeing the scene, Marshall dropped his frying pan and Robin cried "Ted!" and ran straight over to him.

"It's okay! He fainted because of the blood, so I put him in the recovery position..." I tried to explain, but your Uncle Marshall cut me off.

"Oh my God, is he dead?" He asked, pointing at Carl.

I blinked a little. Sometimes I forgot that not everyone had seen a dead body before.

"Um... yes... j-just a little bit..." I said awkwardly, hoping that he wouldn't faint as well – he was quite a bit bigger than me, so I probably couldn't have moved him into the recovery position.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Marshall wailed, pacing up and down and running his hands through his hair. "Should we like, I don't know, like, call the cops, or…? God, I don't know! I don't know!"

"No." I said sharply, drawing both Marshall and Robin's attention with my commanding tone. "We have someone else we need to contact first."

xxx

_Your Uncle Shock and Uncle John were a bit further away than I realised, kids. Not that many blocks away, by cab at least, but well over a thousand feet above ground level._

"Wow. It's incredible, don't you think?"

"Yes – the signal strength here is remarkable."

"Sherlock! I didn't bring you to the Empire State Building just so you could check for cases back home – look out at the city, at least."

"…Fine."

They stared out at the vast expanse of skyscrapers and traffic.

"It's very… organised." John said.

"Yes."

"It's sort of making me homesick for the cluttered look of London, actually."

"Mmm." Sherlock's phone beeped, and he went to check his IM.

"That took less than a minute. Really, Sherlock, just because you _can_ check your messages up here doesn't mean you _should_…"

**Sherlock, I need you.**

"Hold on, John – this could be important."

"What is it?"

"Not sure…"

Another beep. The screen was suddenly filled with an image of a corpse lying face-down on the floor, over the threshold of a doorway. There was a lot of blood on the floor behind him.

"What the hell?" Both men muttered, staring intently at the screen. Sherlock tried to deduce the circumstances, John the body's state. Neither had much luck.

…**I mean, I need you from a professional viewpoint.**

"Well, that really cleared things up…" John muttered.

**Obviously.**

"Why bother stating that in the first place?" Sherlock wondered. "The context made it quite clear."

**Oh, this is Molly by the way.**

"That makes more sense." John said. Sherlock glanced at him in momentary confusion, but ignored it.

**I'm at MacLaren's.**

"Right, let's go!" John started to jog towards the elevators. Sherlock paused, looked out at the cityscape spread out below him, then turned and raced after John.

**Please hurry!**

xxx

_Kids, the wait after I sent those messages seemed endless._

_Really._

_It just stretched on and on…_

Ted was still unconscious. Marshall was kneeling next to him, trying to wake him up. Robin was standing a few feet away, gun in hand, looking around the bar in case the murderer decided to try anything.

As for me, I was taking photographs of the body. Lots of them, very systematically.

_I know that sounds sick, but hear me out, kids._

I was compiling data for Sherlock. I wasn't sure how long the body had been there, and we'd already moved it once by accident on opening the door.

Also, I'd seen Sherlock use a magnifying glass to examine some of the specimens at the morgue. I didn't have one, but I did have a high-resolution camera on my phone. By taking photos, I could provide a much better zoomed-in image than the naked eye would have shown.

**On our way. We should be there in five minutes. SH**

I sent him the pictures in batches, working my way from the head downwards. At the shoulders, Robin interrupted me.

"Molly, what do you think you're doing?" It was clear she thought I'd lost my mind or something. Given how her other friends had reacted to the scene, I thought it best not to take that personally.

"Gathering evidence. We mustn't touch the body – there'd be no point anyway, he's clearly dead – so I'm trying to glean information from what we can see."

"…O-kay. What about the cops? We ought to call them."

"No, not until Sherlock's had a look at this. You've seen his deductive skills. He's a professional; he helps Scotland Yard when they get stuck on cases."

Robin sighed.

"Fine, but I'm going to head upstairs and tell Barney and Lily what's going on. Look after the guys while I'm gone." She walked away with her gun raised and ready, just in case.

**Traffic's awful. Keep sending those pictures, Molly, it's a godsend. I can't stand waiting around when there's a case. SH**

I smiled. Looked like taking the initiative was a good idea, no matter how many weird looks it was earning me from Robin. I returned to my task, keen to help out.

_Also, having something to do was preventing me from thinking about the fact that the guy had been murdered. I had seen a lot of bodies in the morgue, but most of them had died of natural causes. The handful of suicides we got was nothing compared to this. For one thing, I'd seen him alive only the night before. It was a little scary – but I was determined not to dwell on it. _

_I had to keep my cool. Like Sherlock and John would do. Like Robin was doing._

_I kept working._

xxx

Meanwhile, Lily had been sitting jiggling Marvin on her lap and making cooing noises at him since Marshall had gone downstairs. Conversely, Barney had taken to striding aimlessly around the room like a caged animal, alternately cussing and voicing his fears.

"They should be back by now." He muttered, making a particularly violent left turn around the couch. "They should have at least let us know what was going on!"

"Be patient, Barney." Lily admonished, pulling a face at her son. "I'm sure they're fine!"

"I _have_ been patient!" Barney cried. "Where are they?"

Just at that moment, your Aunt Robin opened the apartment door. Barney stopped pacing and stared wide-eyed at her.

"Well? What was it?" He demanded. Robin took a second to absorb her fiancé's appearance: his hair was dishevelled from running his hands through it, his eyes were wide and twitchy, and his whole body seemed to be shaking with nervous energy.

"Barney, why don't you sit down?" Robin suggested, concerned about burdening him with her terrible news whilst he was so worked up. Lily turned to look at Robin, sensing that she had not made a pleasant discovery in the bar.

"Why?" Barney replied, his twitching becoming worse. "Why do I need to sit down? What's happened?"

"Barney," Robin began, gently taking his arm and guiding him to the seat nearest the door. "There's been... a bit of an accident." She paused to let him sit, and to reflect on how best to phrase her explanation of the tragedy downstairs. "It seems that... Carl got into a bit of a fight, and... well, he's uh... he's sort of dead."

"WHAT?" Lily exploded, startling Marvin so badly he began to howl in distress. In response to her baby's wails, Lily gripped him tightly to her chest, effectively crushing him and making the crying worse.

Lily had expected that one of the bimbos from the bar had been groped by an over-zealous suitor, or at worst that someone had been caught in the cross-fire of a bar fight and needed stitches, but she would never have guessed that Carl was... that someone had...

Lily felt her eyes fill with tears. When she was a little girl, her mother had been in a car accident and had been unconscious for two days. Lily had never forgotten the feeling of helplessness and dread that had stayed with her for those forty-eight hours, and suddenly she began to feel the familiar sensations creeping up on her again.

_Kids, your Aunt Robin isn't very good with crying people. She just tends to shuffle closer to them awkwardly and maybe pat them on the back if she feels it will help... _

_It usually doesn't._

_Luckily for her (and Lily) that night, Barney was also in the room. And nothing jerks men out of the feeling of shock faster than a crying woman. True story._

"Hey, come on Lily." Barney said softly, wrapping his arm around Lily's shoulders "How about we put Marvin in his stroller, put on Barney the-not-as-awesome-as-me Dinosaur, and give Marshall a quick call, huh?"

Lily burst into loud sobs, but did not resist as Barney took Marvin from her and placed him into his stroller. Barney motioned for Robin to call Marshall as he selected the Barney DVD from its case.

"M-m-m-Maaarshaaaall" Lily sobbed into Robin's phone. "Is-is-is C-Carl...?"

"Y-yeah, he's uh... he's gone, Lil." Marshall admitted, provoking a fresh wave of mourning cries from his wife.

Robin couldn't help marvelling at how well Barney dealt with both Marvin and Lily. As he sat next to her on the couch once more, having placed their unofficial nephew in front of the TV, he reached out and took her perfectly steady hand in his cold, trembling one. Robin looked up at his pasty, scared face and knew that she had picked the right man to marry this time.

xxx

_At that moment, in a taxi crawling through the busy streets of New York, your Uncle Shock was also getting a little worked up..._

"Can't you make this thing go any faster?" Sherlock growled.

"Why are you asking me?" John hissed. "I'm not the driver!"

"You got a problem with my drivin'?" The driver asked. He was a big man who barely fitted into the cab, having to bow his head in order to avoid the roof.

"Er…" Sherlock looked back down at his phone, re-examining a close-up of Carl's foot.

"'Cause if you have, you should really just say it to my face." His tone suggested that option would result in a world of pain.

"No, we were just saying, uh…" John looked out of the window for inspiration, watching the street crawl by. Then he saw the street name – they were only two blocks away from MacLaren's now. "Just saying that here will be fine, actually. How much was that?"

John paid up and dragged a confused Sherlock out of the cab.

"What did you do that for?" Sherlock asked.

"It'll be faster if we run, the traffic really is awful here. It's only a couple of blocks away."

They took to their heels, sprinting down the road, attracting a lot of funny looks as they went. A few passersby may have concluded they were late for their wedding ceremony when Sherlock grabbed John's hand to make him turn a corner…

xxx

_Back at the bar, I'd finished taking the photos and I'd started to comfort Ted, who had finally regained consciousness._

"B-but he's dead!"

"Er, yes. He is."

"Really dead!"

"…Yes. It was probably quite quick – " The moment I'd said it, I realised it wasn't appropriate outside a hospital. "Uh, I mean, you have to stay strong, Ted."

_He was anything but strong at that point, but really, I was running out of clichés._

"Why?"

"Er… for Marshall's sake."

"What?"

"He was really worried about you when you were out cold. If you act like you're okay, it would reassure him a bit."

_It was absolute codswallop. Marshall was worried about Ted at first, sure, but now he was more scared for Marvin and Lily. Not to mention he was frightened to death _–_ not literally, of course _–_ by the sight of Carl's body._

"Oh." Ted looked over at Marshall, who had gone to sit in the booth. He was looking blankly at the wall. "Good point. I should go talk to him."

"Yes, that'd be a help." I agreed.

Once Ted had moved a few steps away, I pulled out my phone again.

**Where are you?**

As if by magic, a few moments after it had sent, Sherlock and John ran past the window and came into the bar. They paused for a couple of seconds to catch their breath.

Marshall stood up shakily and walked over to them.

"Uh, Sherlock, dude, I'm really sorry about punching y– "

"Yes, fine, whatever." Sherlock said absently. John elbowed him in the ribs. "I mean, apology accepted. Now, where's the victim?" He looked around quickly. I stood up and waved.

"Over here!" I sounded a little too cheerful, given the circumstances, but hey – I was new to the whole crime scene experience.

Sherlock and John hurried over.

_It was time to get some expert opinions on Carl's death._

**A/N Congratulations to our "guess the victim" competition winner: **westwindwaker**. (Also a virtual high-five to ** Sherlocked For Life**, who got it on the second guess – we never said people couldn't do multiple attempts, after all.) Thank you to everyone who took the time to review with their predicted victim. It's good to see we got you guessing! That hopefully means our plot isn't too obvious... Also, a special shout out to **The Observer**, whose deductions were astoundingly close to our thought processes most of the way through – bonus points for showing your working out!**

**We've also got some raw material for a Christmas-themed oneshot companion piece to this, although it may be considerably late for Christmas. Do keep checking back if interested! It'll probably be up before the end of the holidays.**

**Sorry for the delay in writing and uploading this. We wish all our readers a Merry Christmas, or a happy festive season if you don't celebrate Christmas. As we will be busy enjoying the holidays, there will be a bit of a wait before the next instalment gets written. Still, in January we'll be back with a chapter full of plot and randomness… Thanks for reading! In the meantime, we present the new episode of MYCROFT'S ANGELS (now with added insanity and theme music!)**

- **This episode is dedicated to westwindwaker - **

***cheesy theme music plays***

**Da-na-na-na-na...**

**In the battle between good and evil**

**Between scarves and suits...**

**They're not on the side of the angels...**

**Because even if angels did exist, Mycroft wouldn't be one of them!**

**But they are... MYCROFT'S ANGELS!**

**Dan-na-na-na-na-na-NA!**

***cheesy theme music ends***

**_Kids, I will never forget what happened next..._**

**Ted told me he wanted to try on Robin's dress. Before I could react, he was opening the cupboard door to find a mop to use as a wig.**

**SPLAT!**

**A dead guy fell out of the cupboard and flew across the room to land on the table, ruining the fine fabric of the dresses.**

**And he was bleeding over _everything_ – I mean, talk about bad manners! ****Ted was devastated and let out a scream. **

**"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" He trailed off to breathe in. "AAAAA – "**

**"Oh, _do_ shut up, Professor Mosby." I hissed. He shut up. (Victory!)**

**I poked at the body with a stick. ****It rolled off the table and fell to the floor with a SQUELCH.**

**"Where did you get that stick?" Ted asked, ignoring the icky sound effect.**

**I shrugged. "Found it." **

**He stared at me. ****"In the middle of the city?"**

**"Don't be silly, I was taking some goodies to Loretta - she lives in the woods, you see - and I used it to attack a wolf who tried to stop me. I figured a stick is handier than a phone, so I keep it in my handbag now."**

**Ted gasped. "YOU KILLED TREVOR THE WOLF!" He started snivelling like a two-year-old whose favourite toy had fallen in the mud.**

**Just then The Deductor and his sidekick John burst in.**

**Well, Sherlock did the bursting, his coat flapping dramatically in the sudden breeze, and John just seemed to sort of slip in quietly after him.**

**"We're here to solve crimes and drink tea!" Sherlock announced, flipping his curls with a smile that seemed to say 'because I'm worth it'.**

**He looked at John expectantly.**

**"No." John said firmly. Sherlock glared. "No!" Sherlock glared some more. John sighed. "Fine... 'and we're all out of tea'."**

**I piped up: "Actually, I think Lily's got teabags in the apartment, if you want I can go get you some!"**

**Sherlock glared at me. I could understand why John had surrendered to the glare of doom, as it was really kind of scary. It was a glare that seemed to say: "I will write a strongly-worded letter to your manager unless you stop annoying me RIGHT NOW."**

**As if summoned by her name, Lily appeared in the doorway. She gasped at the sight of Carl's now-rotting corpse. Then she murmured, "Lordy me!" and fainted straight into the arms of her waiting husband who had also materialised by the door. **

**"Oh wow, that is the best Hallowe'en decoration ever!" Marshall said, lowering Lily to the floor and stepping over her to enter the room.**

**"Uh... he's real. And it's supposedly midsummer." Sherlock said.**

**"Check his pulse, Johnny!" Marshall cried.**

**"Don't call me Johnny." said John sulkily.**

**John checked the dead guy's pulse.**

**"Yep. He's dead." John confirmed, with a dramatic sweeping arm movement.**

**Nothing happened.**

**"...I want a beer." John said when it became clear that no one was listening to him.**

**He failed to operate the ON button of the beer tap. Sighing in defeat at the complexities of modern technology, he mixed himself a pastel-pink, non-alcoholic cocktail. **

**"Why did Carl lock the liquor away before he died? This is a tragedy!" John huffed.**

**Robin took one look at the drink and sighed. "You're still in denial, aren't you?" **

**"What?" **

**"Campest drink ever, still going to act defensively heterosexual." **

**"But I'm straight! Why don't you pick on Sherlock?" John howled.**

**"...He's too awesome to pick on." Robin smirked.**

**_"Kids, I can now officially reveal that the man on the floor... was DEAD!"_**

**_The kids gasped._**

**_"Oh my God, Mum! You could warn a guy!"_**

**_"Yeah, geez Mum, we would've brought cameras!"_**

**_"Uh... kids, this is a flashback narrative, what use would cameras be? You can't take photos of things in the past..."_**

**_"Oh yeah? Then how come you have wedding photos?"_**

**_"...I know a guy. From Gallifrey."_**

**_Anyway..._**

**Robin peered around Marshall's enormous eight foot, sixteen inch frame, having walked downstairs when it became apparent she wouldn't be teleported to the doorway. And also ignoring the fact that she was just talking to John at the bar - because apparently the authors wanted her to enter twice today... seriously, it was like two completely different people in different places were trying to simultaneously write the lines of her life and crush them together into one cohesive narrative!**

**"Can I shoot it?" She asked, pointing at Carl's body.**

**"...I don't see why not." Sherlock said. "It's got to be better than shooting the wall." **

**"O great Deductor," I began, "aren't you going to use your powers to find out how he died?"**

**"As if!" Sherlock scoffed. "You'll have to wait for quite a while for that information! I know the dramatic value of – wait for it – suspense." **

**"Seriously, why not just do an elongated pause?" I muttered.**

**_Meanwhile, in a secret underground base at 24 Jugular Street, Boston Massachusetts..._**

**"Mwahahahahah!"**

**"How was that one? Did it sound okay? Not too over the top?"**

**The mysterious Irish man, who no-one knows the identity of, checked his new moustache in the mirror.**

**It looked goood...**

**_Meanwhile (yes, 'meanwhile' once more), in Lily and Marshall's flat above the bar..._**

**Barney sat in the dark cradling Marvin and singing quietly.**

**"_I love you, You love me, We're a happy fa-mi-ly!_"**

**Then he burst into tears because he was overwhelmed by his Daddy issues and his angst about being an escort.**

**Marvin sighed around his dummy - or pacifier, as we should probably call it since he's American. He knew he should have taken that role on _CSI: Ho Chi Minh City_!**

**Da-na-na-na-na...**

**This episode of MYCROFT'S ANGELS was brought to you by the late-night, last-minute scribbling of Legendberry and Yellow Emerald. **

**Happy holidays, everyone! Why not give us a review for a present? **


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N Sorry it's been a while, real life has really got a lot of explaining to do… Still, at long last the story continues - and now we're getting to the plot! (Yes, there really is a plot for this thing. Hard to believe, but true.)**

Carl was dead. That much was obvious. To Sherlock, however, many more things were obvious. He rattled off deductions with more speed and accuracy than a computer can crunch numbers.

"…Ex-smoker, failed to kick the habit for at least three years; never drinks alcohol but can stand to work with it, so not an alcoholic, maybe doesn't drink for religious reasons or he just doesn't like the taste - oh, there we go, religious reasons - has two pet cats, one ginger, one black, and he likes the ginger one better; has a close family member or friend with long hair; tends not to walk far at all in these shoes; earns enough to live comfortably if not luxuriantly… Attacker was significantly smaller than him, although given his height that doesn't rule many people out. John, what have you got?"

"Er, death from severe bleeding stemming from a knife wound just below the ribs. He was in pretty good shape so his assailant would've had to be strong to overpower him, or else have caught him off-guard, and as far as I can tell he doesn't have any other injuries apart from a few bruises here and there… Oh, and his nose has been damaged - Molly, was it like that before?"

I looked at Carl's nose, which was now badly crumpled from its encounter with the floor. It had bled slightly after the impact, but there hadn't been much blood left for the body to give out. It looked more like he'd been in a bar brawl than anything else.

"No, it was perfectly fine when we opened the cupboard. That's just from him falling, I think."

"You _think?_" Sherlock's head snapped around to stare at me. "It could be important. Be specific. You suspect, or you know?"

"I know." I said, trying to exude confidence. "His expression was the only thing unusual before he collapsed. His eyes were open and he looked terrified."

"Good. Carry on." He turned back to the body. "No trauma to the head, and - " he leant down to sniff Carl's upturned face "no traces of chloroform or anything, so he would've been fully conscious before he died. Is it too much to hope for a cryptic note written in his own blood?" He shook his head. "Although hardly anyone thinks to do that, and if they do then the important parts are always missing. Never mind."

"Sherlock?" John interrupted him.

"Yes?"

"Have you got everything you need from him?"

"Just about."

"Right then, let's call the police." I said. We'd waited long enough.

_We were the absolute opposite of model citizens when it came to reporting crimes on time, seriously… If it weren't for the fact that your Uncle Shock could figure out more in five minutes than a CSI team could in an hour, I might have felt bad about that._

"And when they come, please try to be polite - the NYPD might not be as tolerant as Scotland Yard." John said, standing up and pulling out his phone. He dialled 99- then stopped, went back and dialled 911. "Hello, I need the police. Someone's been killed. Yes, we just found his body…"

As John proceeded to give the police directions to the bar - impressive, considering how little time we'd spent in New York - I went back over to the body. Kneeling down, I stared at the earthly remains of Carl MacLaren. It was not a pretty sight. The bloodstains were like bad special effects from a low-budget horror movie, and what really got me was his expression. He had been fully aware of what was happening to him, and he hadn't been able to prevent it or even leave a message for us to figure out what happened… The mystery killer could even live in the building. We had no way of knowing, or of gauging how safe it was to stay there.

_Frankly, kids, the situation sucked. Poor Carl's troubles, whatever they might have been, were over… but we were the ones left to pick up the pieces and try to assemble them into some sort of order. So far, the big picture was a total mystery to me._

_Your Uncle Shock, on the other hand, was full of ideas._

"Any theories, Sherlock?" John asked after he'd hung up the phone.

"Twelve, each more unlikely than the last…" Sherlock muttered. "But the first two seem quite credible. We'll start by pursuing those."

"We?" Marshall echoed. "What d'you mean, 'we'?"

"Myself, John, Molly and anyone who cares to assist us. Are you volunteering?"

_I was overcome with joy. For once, I was on the A-team! I would get to go on adventures… even if they were dangerous… and help out Sherlock and John in their investigation. I'd been waiting what felt like forever for this moment. It was as if I had been a secondary character in a story who suddenly got to join the protagonists for a few chapters._

"If you need a lawyer then I've got your back, dude. But I've got to look after Marvin and Lily. I'm no action hero, you know what I'm saying?" Marshall made the mistake of looking down and caught a glimpse of Carl's corpse. He turned pale but, to his credit, stayed quiet.

"Of course. Cheers." John said, before Sherlock could make any inappropriate comments. Marshall looked slightly confused but nodded, heading back to sit with Ted in the booth.

_Americans didn't say 'cheers' for 'thanks'. Who knew?_

xxx

Sherlock and John looked like they were going to have simultaneous heart attacks - I should know, I've seen the faces of heart attack victims!

The object of their horror was the detective that the NYPD had sent over. He was middle-aged, wearing chinos and a smart blue shirt. I couldn't see anything wrong with him apart from the gelled-up Edward Cullen hair that made him look ridiculous.

"This shouldn't be possible." John murmured shaking his head. "You see it too, right Sherlock?"

"Genetically speaking, the human race shares over 90% of its DNA, so freak similarities like this are theoretically possible…" Sherlock mumbled.

"It's like something out of a bad sci-fi movie." John replied as the detective was handed the preliminary report on the murder. He turned to look at the two Brits and began striding towards them.

"Detective Nathan Andrews - NYPD." He introduced himself, holding his hand out for a shocked John to shake. "It's a pleasure to have you boys here. I've read your blog."

"Oh…thank you, er, did you like it?" John asked.

"Oh yeah, that stuff you do, it's genius. I'll bet that's why the body had time to ooze all that blood onto the floor _outside_ the cupboard it was found in before we got here." John blinked, and the detective smirked and turned to Sherlock. "Am I right, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hm. It would appear you do have some intelligence, despite enjoying John's overly-romanticised accounts of our cases, Anderso- Andrews." Sherlock replied, nearly slipping up on the name at the end. John let out a huff of air and crossed his arms. He just knew this was going to be confusing - working with an American look-alike of Anderson.

_I got them to explain about their unusual reactions to the guy's appearance later on, but at that point I just thought they were as taken aback by his hair as I was. I mean, it added at least five inches to his height!_

"Excuse me, is there a Robin Sherkabski here?" Asked an EMT from the corner of the room, where she had been placing an orange shock blanket around Ted's shoulders. John did a double take.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" He snapped under his breath. "Donovan too?"

"Let's just hope Lestrade doesn't drop in, too." Sherlock grumbled.

_I thought I recognised the name Lestrade, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. Anyway…_

"Yeah, that's me!" Robin said, with only the faintest hint of annoyance at the horrendous pronunciation of her surname.

"Can you come and sit with Mr. Mosby please? He's asking for you, honey." She said kindly. "I'm going to go and make him a cup of hot, sweet tea!"

Sherlock looked as though he was going to throw up.

_I guess he wasn't used to seeing his co-worker as an American, or maybe it was just her chirpy tone of voice._

Robin headed over to sit with Ted, who was looking very panicky, and Marshall, who looked slightly better - possibly because he wasn't wearing a shock blanket.

_I suppose Ted was more traumatised, as he'd found the body. Although by that logic I should've also got a blanket… Huh. Maybe it was my composure or something, but nobody seemed to worry that the whole thing had scared me. _

_I mean, it hadn't, obviously. Not much._

_I was fine. Totally fine._

_Not frightened at all._

…_Nope. Not at all._

"Anyway, I just wanted to say that I am willing to fully co-operate with you on this case, Mr. Holmes." Andrews said, not noticing Sherlock's distraction.

"What, really? As in, like, I mean, _seriously_?" John spluttered. Andrews grinned at him.

"Sure. Just don't tell my boss!"

"Uh, sure. I won't say anything to Lestr- him- her- them." John nodded.

"This is bound to come a cropper…" Sherlock muttered. Andrews stared blankly at him and Sherlock gave him a bright, false smile. "British thing, tea-cups and Corgis and all that, never mind!"

_And so the A-team now consisted of myself, Sherlock, John and Detective Andrews. _

"First thing, we need to find his next of kin."

"His sister, Sandy, is in town!" Marshall called out from the booth. Next to him, Ted had returned to his normal colour - either thanks to the tea or Robin's vague sounds of reassurance and promises to shoot anyone who tried to murder him.

"Perfect. Was a mobile found on the body?" Sherlock asked the detective.

"Uh… yeah, we found his cell in his pocket." Andrews replied. "We'll get her number from that and go from there."

"Um, John, can I talk to you for a minute?" Robin, who had been listening in, piped up. John nodded and brushed past Sherlock to speak with her privately. "I just, I mean...it- it's Ted's first murder scene, and...you know, I think he would really benefit from you being here..."

John looked over to where Ted was commenting how the EMT was making tea as sweet as her disposition. Despite the fact that she was wearing a wedding ring. He looked back to Robin to mention his deductions, but then he noticed her face.

Robin's appearance was theoretically picture perfect – just like her TV slot. But when he looked closer, he saw the redness of her eyes, the trembling of her lips and the way she would touch her revolver necklace every few seconds as she looked at the bloodstains where Carl had collapsed. His eyes softened.

"Yeah, ok Rob." He said. "I'll send Sherlock and Molly ahead."

"Thanks John." Rob said, sounding very relieved. "I'm sure Ted appreciates it!"

John smiled and nodded as he came back over to where Detective Andrews was showing your Uncle Shock and me the coroner's report.

"I have to stay here for now, Sherlock, but you and Molly go and find the bartender's sister with Anders- Andrews." John said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at his friend. John gave a vague head-flick towards his fidgeting cousin. Sherlock's expression turned to one of understanding.

"Oh, of course, never actually seen a human corpse before despite extensive military training by her authoritarian father." He breathed. Then he nodded to his flatmate. "Yes, John, I believe you are uniquely suited to dealing with this situation. I'll text you any relevant details. Come along, Molly!" And with that the consulting detective swept dramatically out of the bar, followed by a bemused American detective and an – admittedly a little starstruck – pathologist.

_The game, kids, was on._

_We were going to catch a murderer._

_We were going to interview Sandy - which was going to be a bit awkward. At least I was confident that I knew how to deal with the recently bereaved: in my line of work we couldn't help but pick up some tricks to make people stop crying and pick themselves up._

_We were going to crack the case - and I couldn't wait to get started!_

_Oops, that makes me sound kind of heartless. What I mean is, I was looking forward to working with the Baker Street boys and Detective Anders to get justice for Carl. _

_And if any gorgeous, motorbike-riding American bachelors were involved, that would be the icing on the cake._

**A/N We know we cut it really close with the whole "update in January" thing, but we made it! As for the Christmas special, it remains a heap of raw material so don't expect that anytime soon (…or ever) - but to make up for this, we have at least got a couple of tie-in drabbles up for you to read. So it's all good! **

**Also, we love the doppelgangers in HIMYM so of course we had to include some Sherlock doppelgangers in this crossover! We have a few more in the wings, too.**

**Reviews are always appreciated! Why not let us know what you think?**


	9. Chapter 7 and a half

**A/N Chapter 7 was supposed to be longer, and we didn't want to mess up our notes by calling the second part "Chapter 8", so we proudly present… Chapter Seven-and-a-half!**

_So the start of my big adventure didn't really go as planned…_

_There was very little of the running mentioned in John's blog…we just sort of walked to the edge of the pavement and Sherlock flagged down a cab in less than four seconds. And then when we got into the cab…_

Andrews cursed.

"We can't trace Sandy MacLaren's cellphone because she won't pick it up!" He growled, glaring at the uncooperative phone.

"What " I cried. "We can't have hit a snag already!"

_This never happened in John's blogs! At least not until halfway through!_

"Give it here." Sherlock snapped at Andrews, holding his hand out for the phone impatiently. Sherlock was sitting in the middle seat at the back between Andrews and me. Andrews looked a little confused but handed the phone over. Sherlock fiddled with the phone for a few moments. The cab driver was getting impatient.

"You know the meter's running right?" He grouched. "Do you actually want me to take you somewhere, or you just gonna keep texting?"

Sherlock rattled off an address - _Kids, you know that I still struggle with the street naming system in New York! I've completely forgotten where it was now_ - without looking up from the phone. The driver grunted in affirmation and the car started to move.

"Wow!" Andrews gushed, his eyes shining with awe. "Did you make a deduction from the type of grime on the phone or something?"

"He has the address of his sister's hostel saved under a reminder called 'Pick up Sandy'." Sherlock replied, handing the phone back to the disappointed detective.

"Oh." Andrews said, shoulders slumping.

"But would it interest you to know that Molly has tried on at least six dresses today in various shades of blue and green?" Sherlock asked airily. Andrews' eyes bulged and turned to me. I blushed, ignoring the rapid-fire explanation about threads and strap marks.

"Ted thought that I looked nice in cool colours…" I mumbled.

Sherlock glanced at me as well, humming as his eyes flickered across my face.

I admit that I started to panic a little. Your Uncle Shock isn't a renowned fashionista, but he has some elementary understanding of colour palates and - as seen in _A Study in Pink_ - a basic understanding of the psyche of the well-dressed woman.

Perhaps he thought that Ted's fashion advice was incorrect.

Perhaps he thought that the red lipstick I wore _very occasionally_ was a better match with my skin-tone.

Perhaps I should go back and return the strapless turquoise below-the-knee garment that Ted had so patiently helped me find…

…Even though I really did like it and Ted _had_ been very nice when helping me decide, and really, what was it to him anyway? Sherlock never showed any interest in whether Jade or Azure brought out the twinkle in my eyes! If a total stranger could take more interest in me than the guy I'd been trying to impress for far too long, then the least I could do was pay attention to his fashion advice!

So screw you, Sherlock Holmes! I have a new look and I don't even care if you like it or not!

_Kids, that may have been the moment when I finally got over my crush on Uncle Shock. In fact, it definitely was. I created a scenario where he had insulted me one too many times, and I was having none of it. Of course, it also meant that I was finally able to pursue other interests. Your father for one… or a motorcyclist._

xxx

"How're you holding up, Rob?" John asked, sitting next to Robin in the booth. He wondered if this would be a good moment to ask if he could borrow one of her guns, but seeing her face, he doubted it.

"I'm fine. Fine. It's just, uh, Ted. He's a bit frightened, but it's gonna be fine 'cause you and I are here for him, right?"

"Yeah, Rob, I'm sure Ted's going to be fine. We all are." John said soothingly, trying not to break his cousin's feeble attempt at disguising her feelings by attributing them to Ted.

Although, actually, Ted was pretty scared.

But so was Robin, despite what she said. Her voice shook a little, and occasionally her eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over - and John knew full well that Scherbatsky men didn't cry. If Rob was this shaken up, she really did need some reassurance.

He could always filch the gun from her handbag while he distracted her.

"Hey, uh, Ted," John said, leaning towards the American. "Did Rob ever tell you about the time she came to visit me when we were kids?"

Ted shook his head, briefly making eye contact with John before looking down again.

"Well, it was a funny thing, but I was part of the school rugby team at the time and we'd gone on tour to Vancouver…" The doctor was quickly interrupted.

"Ugh, John, don't tell him about that!" Robin protested. "It's embarrassing!"

Ted sat up a little, looking more interested. John looked at his audience - Rob was fully distracted by her instinct to clap a hand over his mouth, and was no longer looking so panicky, while Ted had started to perk up just at the idea of a funny story about his friend.

"Go on, John, tell me!" Ted said. It was the most he'd said for twenty minutes, which John decided was a good sign.

"It all started when I received a phone call at the hotel…" John began, spinning the story out to maintain the bubble of normality around them for a little while. At one moment, he surreptitiously pulled Robin's handbag closer with his foot, and waited for his chance to pilfer a weapon without anyone (especially the police) noticing. When he got to the point where Robin had to cross-dress and put on a British accent, he actually got some genuine laughs, not just polite giggles, from them. Clearly, his bedside manner wasn't as rusty as he'd thought.

Under the cover of the sound, he 'borrowed' one of Rob's guns and tucked it into his coat pocket.

Just as the three of them were recovering from the unexpected burst of merriment (to the disapproving glances of the remaining police officers) a woman walked through the doors.

She stopped stock-still and stared at the bloodstained floor next to the cupboard, then processed the police officers' presence.

"What the -?" She stopped as she spotted John and company. "John? What are you doing here? And what the hell happened?" She spluttered.

"Oh, hello Anthea." John got up to greet her, and said quietly, "I thought you were doing Mycroft stuff?"

"I _was_. This was meant to be my rendezvous…" She murmured. "Why are there police here? Was someone injured?"

"The owner, Carl MacLaren, has been killed. We discovered the body, and the police are investigating…" John said, at a more normal volume. "As is Sherlock, of course." He added, more quietly.

"I see." Anthea muttered darkly. As she looked away from John, she caught sight of the blood again and blanched. "Oh, God, that's where he d-died, isn't it?" She squeaked, looking a little queasy. John nodded, and took her by the arm.

"I think you need some fresh air, Anthea. Let's go outside for a minute, yeah?" He said, steering her towards the door and away from the bar.

_Kids, your Uncle John has a certain talent for stopping people from totally freaking out at their first-ever crime scenes. Admittedly, that doesn't sound all that useful - it's such a specific gift - but it really has come in handy in his time working with your Uncle Shock._

_It certainly helped Louise… uh, Eve - no, Anthea… just then._

"Are you alright?" John enquired anxiously. "You looked like you were going to faint."

"No, no, I'm fine, I just… I'm fine. Really." Anthea paused and swayed slightly, leaning against the brick wall of the alleyway. "Whoa."

"Let me guess, vision not working too well?" John said, looking carefully at her. "You might want to sit down before you collapse."

"No, I'll be fine, really!" Anthea protested, trying to stand tall but quickly experiencing further blurry vision and dizziness.

"Oh, good grief." John muttered, grabbing her shoulders and pushing her to a sitting position and tucking her knees up to her chest. He crouched beside her and sighed. "You don't have to put on a brave face, you know. Lots of people suffer from the strain of seeing… something like that. In the army, it happens a lot with new recruits. You just need to stay as calm as you can, take some deep breaths and if possible have a nice hot cup of tea. Try not to think about it. We'll start with those deep breaths, okay?"

Anthea nodded, but her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes had a haunted, glazed look to them as if she was seeing the bloodstained floor all over again.

John took her hand and squeezed it lightly. "Anthea, look at me, alright?" She jolted out of her trance-like state and turned to face John. "Now, take a deep breath in through your nose, hold it for a few seconds, and then let it out through your mouth, like this…" He demonstrated a basic relaxation technique, and soon Anthea joined in. Occasionally she would zone out for a moment, but John just took her hand again and she returned from her distraction with a sheepish half-smile.

"Sorry."

"Not a problem." He smiled, eliciting a weak grin from Anthea. "And breathe in…"

_Your Uncle John maintains that it was the breathing technique that stopped her from passing out, but the way your Auntie tells it, it was actually the reassuring warmth of his hand in hers._

_I prefer your aunt's version, but then I'm a romantic at heart. Your Uncle Shock prefers John's version, of course._

_Either way, for a few minutes there was a bubble of calm in that alleyway, despite the oceans of fear and confusion that had engulfed the building beside it._

_It wouldn't last for long, though. The oncoming storm was getting ever closer, but we'll get to that soon enough._

xxx

Barney, Lily, Marshall and Marvin were all drinking warm milk upstairs when-

"_Wait, what?"_

"_Why were they all drinking warm milk?"_

"_Um… Well…"_

'Marshall, why are you heating up milk for Marvin when Lily's right there?'

'I'm so stressed I don't think I can breast feed!'

'…Okay then...'

'…Do you want some too, Barney?'

'How about we all just have some?'

"_There, that's why. Now let me get on with the story!"_

So they were all drinking warm milk when Marshall suddenly came out with:

"Oh my God, Barney, why did you never tell us you were an 'escort'?"

Barney spluttered on his milk and stared at the taller man.

"Come on, you know how bad Lily is at keeping secrets!" Marshall snapped. "And you're no better!"

"Really, 'cos I kept _that_ secret for _years_!" Barney said smugly.

"But seriously, Barney, we accepted strippers and even _paralegals_ into our group, why did you not think you could trust us with this?"

"Is this really something we should be discussing when there's been a _murder_ downstairs?" Barney asked, and was immediately shushed by both parents.

"Not in front of Marvin!" Lily hissed.

"Oh, so it's okay to discuss my '_profession_' in front of him, but not the fatal stabbing less than three floors away?" Again the parents shushed him.

Marvin gurgled and did a little fart.

"Sex is fine, it's in lots of arty European movies and stuff - it's just violence we have a problem with!" Marshall explained.

"Besides, now is the perfect time to talk about it, since you're already shaken up from the incident-that-we-shall-not-speak-of!" Lily added. Barney groaned.

"What more do you wanna know? I already told you, I'm an 'input and output data flow specialist' who occasionally has to bang a few of the company's hot business partners. It's just a perk!"

"Is that what Robin thinks?"

There was silence for a few minutes. Punctuated by the slurping of warm milk and the occasional gurgle from Marvin.

"Oh my God! You _haven't told her_!" Marshall wailed. Marvin joined in, and then Lily patted them both soothingly on the arm.

"You have to tell her, Barney! It's an important part of who you are! She needs to _know_!"

"Riiight! Just like you need to know about that time when Marshall took hard drugs!" Barney scoffed, sipping his milk like it was Scotch. Lily stared at Marshall.

"That never happened, baby! I mean, I didn't know what that stuff was! I had a headache and Barney gave me something for it - "

"I got it at that rave I went to with Robin, I'd forgotten at the time!" Barney muttered.

"…and afterwards I felt all tingly like when you rub my tummy after a big meal!" Marshall babbled. Lily just stared at him.

"You're right, I would have been happier not knowing that, but _stop trying to change the subject_!" Lily barked, turning back to Barney.

"Ugh! I really don't need to talk about it! It started out as a mostly innocent sort-of-dating line!" At their blank expressions, Barney realised he would have to explain. "So after I broke up with Shannon and hooked up with Rhonda, I realised that I'd been missing out on a world of awesome, and that I had to make up for lost time! So James and I started this 'dating' business - it helped me pay off my student debts and I got to go on dates and have sex with loads of lonely women! Also, James decided he was gay and had this huge crisis where he was angsting about telling Mom and stuff, but who cares! And then I got bored having sex with the same lonely women over and over and over and over and over and over and over - "

"Barney!" Lily scolded.

"…and over, so I quit and James sold the business to a friend of his, and I got a job at a large corporate investment agency as a self-styled 'input and output data flow specialist'…who occasionally slept with hot female business associates. But it's all in the past anyway; I stopped accepting those requests when I started dating Robin again, so really, she doesn't need to know."

Silence reigned supreme once more as Lily and Marshall digested this. Marvin began to chew his elephant shaped rattle and then offered it to Barney with a string of drool attaching it to his mouth. Barney smiled but didn't touch it - that was gross!

"You should still tell Robin." Lily finally managed. "She may not need to know - or even want to - but she _deserves_ to know about this, Barney."

Barney sipped his warm milk pensively and didn't reply.

xxx

We walked to the front of Sandy's hostel and tried the door handle.

It was locked.

"What now?" I whispered. "Do we, like, knock down the door yelling 'Police, open up'?"

"Er, I have a police badge, but we don't have a search warrant. No door-busting, I'm afraid, Ms. Hooper." Detective Andrews said. "We'll be doing this the old-fashioned way."

"Don't tell me, ringing the bell and shouting 'Police'?" Sherlock muttered.

"No, Mr. Holmes," Andrews said patiently. "We wait for someone to go through the door, then follow them in. It's nearly dinnertime, so people will start moving pretty soon."

As he spoke, a small group of twentysomethings emerged from the building. They were dressed in long black robes and each of them held a stick in one hand.

"Are you lot supposed to be wizards or something?" Andrews asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Witches, actually. We're cosplaying."

_Now that she mentioned it, I could totally see it! The redhead with really pale skin had crimped her hair to resemble Hermione's, although why she didn't go for being a Weasley I'll never understand._

"Anyway, what are you all doing lurking outside a youth hostel? That's kinda creepy…" Said a disgruntled-looking blonde with radish earrings. _She made a great Luna, although her craziness was a little lacking. And her glasses weren't technically Luna-ish. _She added in an undertone, "Should we call security or something?" The third 'witch', a brunette with glasses and a giant Ravenclaw scarf, shook her head and edged away.

"Oh, we're here to pick up my niece!" I said brightly. "She loves those Harry Potter films too - she even got me into the series, as a matter of fact. I've read all the books, as well. Your robes are really accurate!" I smiled with all the confidence I didn't feel.

The group seemed to accept this explanation, and for a few moments we enthused about the hand-stitched school crest and the time that had gone into each costume. Then the redhead seemed to refocus.

"Seriously, though, why'd you bring along those dudes? They haven't stopped staring at us."

"Charlie!" Muttered the brunette. "Drop it!"

"Er, they're - " I began, but 'Charlie' interrupted me.

"No, wait, just answer this - do you have anything to do with the Winchesters or a guy called Roman?"

"Uh, no…"

"Cool. I don't care then." She held the door open and allowed us in, then walked away with her fellow witches. "Later, bitches!" She called to us over her shoulder.

Sherlock and Andrews exchanged looks.

I shrugged. _I'd met fangirls way weirder than those three online._

"Well, we're in, aren't we?" I said. "What next?"

"We get past Reception and into the room." Sherlock said.

"But we don't know which room is hers!" I protested.

"Exactly. Which is why you're going to walk right up to the receptionist and ask which room your darling 'niece' is in."

"…_That's_ your plan " I hissed in disbelief. "Why me?"

"Because it was actually very convincing a moment ago, and you're the one with the most 'people skills' here." Sherlock said bluntly. "Plus it could be considered 'creepy', as that girl put it, if Andrews or I try to get into a young lady's bedroom - "

"And we don't wanna pull my badge until we really have to, or we'll lose the element of surprise." The American finished. "If she's the killer, we can't give the game away or she'll run off."

"Fine, but you owe me for this." I muttered. Sherlock and Detective Andrews exchanged another look - was there some telepathic conversation I was missing here?

"Okay." They said, at exactly the same time.

_I still think it was telepathy, kids._

I walked down the corridor, following the large sign that read "RECEPTION".

It was time to put my acting skills to the test.

The receptionist was a well-groomed man - plucked, buffed and shined in every possible way - who was typing away at his computer and pursing his lips, as if what he saw there annoyed him greatly.

"Can I help you, honey?" He said suddenly, without looking up from his screen. His voice was higher than I expected, and his complete lack of interest in me threw me for a moment.

"Um, yes. I'm, uh, I'm looking for my niece's room? I think she's been staying here for a few days, um…"

_Apparently my newfound confidence had abandoned me. Great._

The receptionist finally looked up at me and raised his perfectly-shaped eyebrows.

"She got a name, Mary Poppins?" He drawled. I tensed at the insult to my Britishness.

"Yes. Sandy MacLaren, and I would appreciate it if you dropped the nicknames Mr.-" I glanced at his name badge. "Paulo."

Paulo scowled, but turned back to his screen, attacking the keys with a single-minded ferocity that reminded me of my ex-boyfriend.

_(We'll come to him later, kids.)_

"Room two-oh-six." Paulo said shortly, handing me a keycard. "Have a nice day."

"Thank you _so_ much." I said, smiling sweetly at him. "You've been _such_ a great help."

"I haven't seen Sandy since breakfast yesterday. She hasn't left her room all day." Paulo sneered. "Probably all over some boy, I suppose. Tel her she can't bring her hook-ups back to the hostel!" The memory of Sandy's unsuccessful attempt to flirt with me bubbled to the forefront of my mind.

"Er, yeah, sure, whatever." I said, trying not to burst out laughing.

I walked over to where Detective Andrews was trying to lounge casually on a chair while being stared at by a group of students.

"Hey, I got the room key. Let's go!" I muttered. He stood up and followed me over to another corridor; Sherlock peeled away from a shadowy patch of wall and joined us.

_Your Uncle Shock always manages to find the one part of a room with atmospheric lighting. Don't ask me how he does it._

Anyway, we got to the room in question and knocked on the door.

"Hello?" I called, feeling slightly foolish. There was no response, so I ran the keycard past the sensor and the door clicked open. We stepped inside.

The room was fairly clean: the bed had been made, though not very neatly, and there was a suitcase lying open at the foot of the bed. The window was ajar and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains. A pair of well-worn jeans were folded on top of the chair in the corner, and an emerald-green scrunchie was perched on top of them.

"We're not going to find her." Sherlock sighed. "Damn it!"

"She could be in the bathroom." Andrews supplied.

"No, don't you see it, Anders - Andrews? We're too late, Sandy MacLaren's gone!"

"_What?"_

"The murderer reached her first!" I squeaked.

xxx

"_But how did he know about that?" Luke asked. "You still hadn't told us about how he knew all that stuff about Carl, either!" He complained._

"_Yeah, Uncle John always explains exactly how Uncle Shock figures things out!" Leia added._

"_Er, well, I never actually found out. We were so busy trying to solve the case and everything that I just assumed he was right and went with it."_

"_That's so lame, Mum!"_

"_I tell you what, why don't we call him? I'm sure he'd be happy to hear you two are taking such an interest in the science of deduction!"_

_I figured I might as well take a break from the story for a few minutes anyway. Who knew it would take this long just to get to the investigation? _

_The phone rang twice before John picked up._

"_You've reached the Baker Street Detection Agency. If you were trying to get the Watson medical practice, I can tell you the right number, and if not I can pass you to Sherlock Holm - "_

"_It's me, John."_

"_Oh, hi Molly. How're you doing?"_

"_Fine, just telling the kids how we met their father. Is Sherlock available?"_

"_Uh, sure. He's just running a brief experiment; it'll only take a few more minutes. What do you want him for?"_

"_The case with the MacLarens, I was just wondering if he could explain some of his deductions…"_

"_Well, it's been quite a while. Usually he just deletes old case data unless he needs it, but maybe - "_

"_Ah-ha! It __**was**__ purple!" Sherlock yelled triumphantly in the background._

"_What?"_

"_Oh, he was right about the case he's on. He'll be in a good mood, so now's your best chance to ask him!" John said, and then shouted for Sherlock to get the phone._

"_Hello?"_

"_Hi Sherlock, Molly here, the kids wanted to know how you made your deductions in the MacLaren case…"_

**A/N Instead of "the MacLaren case", can anyone think of a good title for it? Review with one and we might have John 'borrow' it…**

**Chapter 8 will be ready… whenever it's ready. (We've sworn not to set ourselves any more deadlines!) On the plus side, we finally get to see Season 8 of How I Met Your Mother, so that should motivate us!**


	10. Chapter 8

**A/N So, it's deduction time! (Finally.) The first half of this chapter is just present-day Molly and kids listening to Uncle Shock's explanations - the events of the past resume shortly afterwards, once the **_**italics**_** stop. **

**We'd like to give a shout out to **CJaMes12** and **westwindwaker** for their suggestions on what to call the MacLaren case: you guys had some well-reasoned ideas, thanks for helping us out! 'The Times Square Case' was neat, but we're not really sure about setting so… yeah. Can't really give much reasoning behind our decisions because of spoilers. (Yes, we do have a plot planned out. Shocking, we know!) In the end, however, we decided to twist **westwindwaker**'s idea to sound more melodramatic - the words 'Across the Pond' were so appealing, we had to use them!**

"_Hi Sherlock, Molly here, the kids wanted to know how you made your deductions in the MacLaren case…" I said._

"_The MacLaren case?" Sherlock asked, confused. "Hold on, let me switch to holophone mode." There was a click and our projector fired up a life-size blue image of Sherlock Holmes, lying upside-down with his legs over the back of the sofa, his torso resting on the sofa itself and his head dangling off the edge with his hair nearly brushing the floor. Sherlock looked essentially the same as he always had, with just a few exceptions. His dark curls were greying at the temples, his skin was a little looser with age, and he had an almost imperceptible cross-shaped scar on one cheek. He was wearing his usual 'BORED' pyjamas and a disgruntled scowl._

"_Uh… John called it… 'Blood Ties Across the Pond'?" I said hesitantly - John's work had become steadily more literary across the years and sometimes I struggled to keep up. _

"_Oh yes! Blood Ties…" Sherlock trailed off and his eyes got a glazed, faraway quality. I waited patiently. After about forty seconds the kids started fidgeting and giving each other funny looks. Eventually Sherlock returned from his mind palace. "I find it irritating to use John's pedestrian attempts at literature to catalogue my cases, but I feel obliged to recognise his efforts at chronicling them… and also, my line of work demands that I use the same terminology as Scotland Yard." He sighed dramatically. "Very well Molly, at what point have you interrupted your husband's tedious narrative?"_

"_Ted got stuck in 2012." I explained. "I started from the point John and I flew out, but now the kids want to know about your deductions about Carl MacLaren."_

"_Carl MacLaren. Thirty-four, bartender, Caucasian, ex-smoker - "_

"_Yes, Sherlock," I interrupted. "We know _what_ the deductions are, we just want to know _why _they are."_

"_Ah, I see. Because you lack the extended exposure to my methods that John has experienced, you also lack the capability to explain my reasoning adequately." Sherlock concluded._

_I had forgotten that he always used a lot of words to say very little._

"_Sure. Now if you wouldn't mind…?"_

_Sherlock sighed in exasperation._

"_The victim's fingers and teeth were stained yellow with nicotine, but on closer inspection I detected no lingering scent of smoke on the body or clothes. I also searched his pockets and discovered no lighter, matches, cigarettes or nicotine patches. Ex-smoker, recently quit - not so recent that he would need the nicotine patches, but not so long ago judging by the stains."_

"_Oh my God! You're magic!" Luke exclaimed._

"_Uncle Shock is using _science_, magic is irrelevant." Leia countered._

"_Hmm, anyway." Sherlock gave the two teenagers a contemplative look, then continued. "Whilst checking for the smell of smoke, I noticed the smell of his detergent - lilac - suggesting a cheap brand that he clearly didn't buy for the smell. Add this to the outfit - probably cost quite a bit when bought, seeing as it was still serviceable and looked respectable even though it was in season two years beforehand - and we can reach the conclusion that Mr. MacLaren was earning enough to live comfortably, if not luxuriantly."_

"_Brilliant!" Luke whispered. He had scooted forward onto the edge of his seat and had his fists clenched in front of his face. The corner of Sherlock's mouth may have twitched slightly, but I couldn't be sure. It was difficult enough to read his expression when his face _wasn't_ upside-down._

"_As I checked his pockets, I found a badge on his lapel proclaiming that he had two years' abstinence from alcohol - but he worked as a bartender, so he was not a recovering alcoholic since he would never be able to withstand the temptation. Thus he either quit for religious reasons, health reasons or personal reasons. I ruled out health reasons quickly because his eyes showed no signs of yellowing - that's a common sign of liver damage." He explained to the kids, seemingly remembering his audience for once. "The religion theory was quickly confirmed by the signet ring showing the star and crescent symbol - the Muslim faith prohibits the consumption of alcohol and other stimulants. However, as we know he was a smoker, the odds were he had only joined or rediscovered the faith in recent years - probably the point when he gave up nicotine and alcohol."_

"_Seriously, this is mental!" Luke muttered to Leia, who nodded, her eyes fixed on Sherlock. She was as fascinated as Luke was, though her interest lay more in the logic itself than the impressive results._

"_Then there was the strand of long hair caught on his button - probably got trapped there as a result of an embrace, but no love bites or lipstick traces on his skin, and no trinkets save for the signet ring, so odds are we're talking friend or family rather than partner. The length of it suggested a woman or a man with exceptional personal grooming, most likely a woman judging from the location of the button, which was well below shoulder height." Before the kids could interrupt, he carried on. "Ginger cat hairs on the lap and shins, but the black fur was only present on the shins - clearly he prefers the ginger cat as he lets it rest on his lap despite its more conspicuous colouring. Then there were his shoes - they were hardly worn on the soles, and still buffed enough on the leather, but a bit cracked from frequent usage. So he wore them a lot but never walked far in them, suggesting that he lived near the bar." _

_He stopped abruptly._

"_But what about the murder?" Leia pressed. "The wounds? The blood? Don't tell me you didn't get more from that!"_

"_Oh, your mother told you about that?" Sherlock said, slightly surprised (and, I thought, a little impressed by Leia's perspicacity). "I wasn't sure if it was appropriate to discuss it with children your age."_

"_I'm not a child, I'm an adolescent!" Leia protested._

"_Yeah, what she said!" Luke chipped in. "We're, like, teenagers, we can handle it!"_

"_Yes, of course," Sherlock smiled. "I must admit, Leia, I'm impressed by your perspicacity -" (Nailed it.) "- I did learn a lot from the scene and the injuries."_

_He took a breath, gathering his thoughts, which had wandered, as they were wont to do during social interaction._

"_His attacker had been significantly smaller than him, judging by the position of the fatal wound and the angle of the tear in his shirt, which was wider at the bottom. I don't know what Molly has told you, but Carl MacLaren was a rather tall man. This alone made it hard to rule out suspects. He also had quite considerable muscle density, so an attacker that much smaller than him would have had to be either very fast or very strong to inflict such a wound. Furthermore, when I examined the scene it quickly became apparent that - "_

"_Uh, Sherlock, I haven't got to that bit yet." I said quickly, before he could give the kids spoilers - this was my story, after all, and I didn't want the ending ruined. Well, any more than it already was, what with Ted and I being married and the fact that the case itself was front-page news at the time. _

_We have that newspaper framed in Ted's office - it was the first shot of his building that made the news._

"_What? How could you not have - oh, you plan to describe that horrible tangential period where the case didn't progress, don't you?" He looked vaguely disgusted._

"_Yes, yes I do. It's a vital part of the story, Sherlock, no matter how much you want to erase it from your memory."_

"_Vital?" He snorted derisively. "I made one minor realisation during the course of those loathsome events, it hardly counts as - "_

"_I meant it was vital to _my _story, not to mention Barney and Robin's. It's not as if I can just skip over their stag and hen nights!"_

"_Wish I could've." Sherlock grumbled._

"_Sherlock! What've you done with the teapot?" John's voice echoed over the holophone. _

"_It's in the fridge, don't use it, it's got an experiment in it!"_

"…_Why didn't you use something else?"_

"_You were cooking, all the pans were in use."_

"_That's not reassuring! Right, I'm going to borrow Mrs. Hudson's."_

"_What? No, that one's got the blood sample in it!" Sherlock muttered, swinging his legs off the back of the sofa and springing to his feet, eyes darting to the side in consternation._

"_I'll leave you to it." I said hurriedly._

"_Thanks for the deductions, Uncle Shock!" Luke grinned._

"_Yeah, it was… illuminating." Leia nodded._

_Sherlock smiled - one of his rare genuine flashes of emotion; probably brought on by pride both in his own work and in Leia's use of a polysyllabic word. He had always been keen to get the kids at least capable of using more complex vocabulary than their peers._

"_If you need anything else explained, just give me a call. Goodbye, Molly. Leia, Luke." He nodded at us, and then darted out of the holophone's range just as the sound of a strangled cry of horror came from the background._

_I switched off the holophone before the inevitable argument in Baker Street relayed through it. _

"_Anyway, now that we've cleared up the deductions, I'll get back to the story…"_

xxx

_Now kids, I know you'll want to know what happened to Sandy, but the thing is, we didn't find out for a while, so bear with me here. Of course when it became clear that Sherlock didn't know where she had gone, Andrews reported her disappearance to the police. Unfortunately, nothing turned up in the preliminary checks._

_And meanwhile, we were just a bunch of useless tourists and civilians waiting on the detective's phone call. We weren't able to investigate anything - the case was at a dead end, for the time being, at least. After she'd recovered from her initial shock, Anthea had disappeared to go and report to Mycroft and organise whatever was left of the contacts she was supposed to be dealing with. She told us not to hold our breath for help with the case, since Sherlock was the best bet we had for figuring it out and it would be a waste of resources to divert more to helping him… So basically, we were stuck._

"So, uh, Ted," I began, to break the awkward silence that had taken over the apartment after we'd all reunited and swapped news. "What were you planning to do today?"

"Well," Ted shrugged, "it's supposed to be a day to try on outfits and rehearse the vows, and then in the evening we'd planned to split up for the bride and groom's bachelor and bachelorette parties - I mean, bacherlorette and bachelor parties. In that order."

"I don't know if Rob's really up to partying." John said, with a protective glance at his cousin.

"No, I'm fine," Robin said. "I could really use the distraction, after all the insanity of the… uh… bar incident."

"Me too!" Chimed in all the Americans.

_Perhaps it was a British trait to deal with trauma through a quiet sit down with a nice cup of tea, rather than an evening of thumping music and alcohol._

_Then again, perhaps that was just me and John. Sherlock preferred his violin to the quiet of the empty flat. For that matter, John's sister would certainly prefer to go out partying, so maybe it wasn't an American thing after all._

_Before I could continue musing on the cultural differences between the U.K. and the U.S.A., the others dragged me back to reality._

"Sounds like the parties are on." Lily smiled. "My dad's ready to take care of Marvin tonight, anyway, so we might as well make the most of it."

A small distance to the side, Sherlock was scowling at the floor. John nudged him in the ribs and said in an undertone: "C'mon, Sherlock, it's not like we have casework to be doing yet. It'll be like one of your distraction techniques - your subconscious can work on the case while you socialise."

"Socialising is one of the least relaxing activities I've ever experienced." Sherlock huffed.

"You take me along sometimes when you go to concerts, that's social." He paused. "Ish."

"That's different." Sherlock muttered, but he soon relented on seeing John's imploring expression. "Fine. Just this once… And the word is 'sociable', John."

John just smiled. _I always envied his ability to get through to Sherlock. _

"So, are we doing a full rehearsal?" I asked Ted.

"Nah, we're just checking that the bride and groom know when it's appropriate to talk during the vows. Also, Barney wanted the chance to see me and Marshall and Marvin in our suits before the big day."

"Marvin gets a suit?" I could just picture it. "How adorable!"

"See, Marshall, I _told _you chicks dig a tuxedo whatever the wearer's age." Robin said, pre-empting Barney, who high-fived her.

_It was impressive, actually. They didn't even make eye contact, they just simultaneously high-fived while standing side by side. How did that even work? Telepathy?_

"You tell him, Robin!" Barney grinned. "So, we're gonna try on our outfits and check if the dresses that Ted got show enough cleavage." Lily looked alarmed.

"Hang on - I forgot to give you my measurements, Ted! You bought a dress anyway?"

"Uh…" Ted shuffled his feet. I decided to help him out.

"Um, I helped him. With the dress sizes. Although I had to figure out the American system first, I think I got it right." I improvised.

_It was a fib of mercy, kids. Anyway, it was half true - Ted and I had spent about five minutes trying to work out which size was which in each system before we remembered our phones and Googled it._

"Oh. Well, that makes more sense." Lily said. "I guess I should really try it on, then. Hey, what're you going to wear, Molly?"

"Ted helped me pick out a dress; I'll show you later." I said chirpily.

_Later on…_

"Wow, Robin!" Lily said, staring at her best friend's wedding dress. "You look gorgeous!"

"Damn right," Ted grinned, glowing with the pride of a job well done.

"Aww, thanks, you guys. I have to admit, you did good, Mosby - this dress is awesome!" Robin twirled around in the long white gown. "I think I should change back soon, though. I feel kind of bad keeping Barney trapped in the bathroom with Marshall."

"Totally necessary." Ted declared. "It's - "

"Bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before the wedding!" Robin, Lily and I chimed in with him, giggling.

He _did_ obsess about wedding traditions quite a bit. Of course we were going to pick up some of his twaddle.

"_Mum, you sound extra-British when you say stuff like 'twaddle'." Leia smirked, attempting to mimic a posh English accent as she quoted the word back to me._

"_Oh really? I sound extra-British? Says the American who calls me 'Mum', not 'Mom'…" I said, stressing a pretend American drawl on the last word._

"…_Touché." Leia conceded, sounding rather British as she did so._

_Ha! I totally won that round._

"Okay, I can take a hint!" Ted sighed. "Well, at least we know all the outfits are the right sizes."

"Yeah, mine fits me perfectly!" Lily said. "Good thing Molly here was with you, huh, Ted?"

"…Uh, yeah. Yeah." Ted grinned, shooting me a look that said 'nice save - I owe you one!'

"You did a good job to help find such a stunning dress, too. Especially at such short notice."

"Aw, it was nothing." Ted blushed.

_Most adorable thing ever. _

_Even more adorable than Marvin in his itsy-bitsy suit._

"_Ew, Mum, that's Dad you're talking about!" Luke groaned._

"_Sorry. But it was cute."_

"_Dad blushing or Marvin's suit?" Leia asked._

"_Both!" I grinned. "A__nyway, I won't bore you with our girly chat. Let's skip ahead to the evening, when the parties were about to kick off."_

"_But the bachelorette party's gonna be full of girly chat!" Luke protested._

"_Perhaps, dear, but it'll be balanced out by the story of your Uncle Barney's stag do."_

"…_Fine."_

xxx

_It was still light outside, but inside the Hoser Hut the outside world was obscured by a giant Canadian flag that had been nailed over the main window to the street. Thankfully, the white background meant it let in enough light for customers to see their way around._

"Is that a Mountie?" I wondered, staring at a guy at the bar. He was in full uniform, seemingly for no reason.

"Yeah, and look - the Queen's over there!" Lily said, enjoying my look of surprise.

"Wh-where?" I spun around to see a waxwork of Elizabeth II. Weirdly, it made me feel a little more at home. We had come to the bar for Robin's hen night, and it was packed with Canadians of all varieties.

In our party, there was me, Robin, Lily, and some of Robin's friends from work. I'd already forgotten their names, but whatever, they didn't talk to me all night after a few greetings. They were too hypnotised by the ice hockey match being played out on the giant LCD screens overhead.

"_What's LCD? Is it some kind of drug?"_

"_Stop interrupting, Luke."_

"Way to lose your lumber on the ice, ya tool!" Robin shrieked at the screen, leaping up and down so much that she crashed into someone, who apologized to her, saw her 'Bride-to-be' T-shirt and bought her a drink.

_Weird. Canadians were way too polite, even by British standards._

As he walked away, she leaned against the bar with her fresh scotch and nudged me. "Neel alert." She said nodding towards the retreating man.

Lily looked over at him and frowned. "Where do you know him from?" She asked, clearly confused because she should know and approve all of Robin's extraneous friends.

"Who?" Robin frowned.

"Neil?" Lily pressed.

"Who's Neil?" Robin snorted, sipping her Scotch.

"Canadians are weird." I mouthed at Lily.

xxx

_Meanwhile, at Barney's stag do…_

"Ok, so, as the groom's fiancee's Man of Honour, I have some _fun_, _exciting_ activities planned for this - "

"Strip club!" Barney yelled, racing out of Marshall's apartment with some of the other people he had invited. (_I think they were all his, uh, 'guys'._)

_Your Father made a valiant effort to keep them on the schedule he had meticulously planned to the last minute... but then, no can-do's-ville, baby-doll!_

"_No, Mum. Just no."_

_Ahem, yes. Anyway they ended up at the Lusty Leopard._

Uncle Shock didn't really enjoy, or understand, the Lusty Leopard. Don't get me wrong, the dancers _really liked _him, but he just wasn't interested. It must be because he had it all: the accent they loved, the 'tall, dark, and handsome (with awesome cheekbones)' vibe, and the expensive looking suit that usually spelt a big pay-rise for the girls. The way Uncle John tells it, they flocked to him all night and he barely noticed they were there - suffice to say none of them got paid a penny from him either. By sitting next to Sherlock, John got the benefit of a great view, even if he did have to listen to Sherlock whine all night.

"And I mean, really, is it _so hard_ to request one or two new cadavers from the hospitals here? Just to test some theories!" Sherlock complained, waving his hands madly then slouching down into his chair sulkily.

"Mhm." Was all John replied, his eyes glued to the two girls dancing in front of them, and feeling a little guilty at taking advantage of them like this… just a little. "What did you say your name was again? Karma?" He asked one of them. She may have swooned a little at his accent.

_Meanwhile, across the club, Marshall had bought the company of one specific stripper for the whole night… in the Champagne Room…_

"_Uncle Marshall did _what_?" Leia growled, protective of her Aunt Lily's integrity._

"_No, no, no! Uncle Marshall wouldn't do that! He wouldn't! …Would he?" Luke denied._

_Woah, woah, woah. What I was _going _to say was: he bought the company of one specific stripper, and spent all night doing just one thing._

"And _this_ is a photo of when me and Lil took Marvin to the _east_ bank of the duck pond, and he sneezed on a duck…"

'Jasmine' (if that was her real name - the Americans just called her Stripper Lily, as she bore a striking resemblance to Marshall's wife) sighed.

"Look, Meesta Marshall, do you vant me to dance?" She asked.

"Uh, no, no that won't be necessary. Hey, d'you know who loooves to dance? The Space Teens. Man, Marvin and I love that show. The algebra is complex enough to hold my attention, and he's always bopping along to the songs! It works on different levels, it's great! Hey, let me show you another photo of Marvin…" Marshall rambled on.

Okay, so it was expensive, but at least this way he didn't have to deal with Barney and his guys and possibly John and Sher- no, probably not Sherlock - ogling a half-naked doppelganger of Lily.

xxx

_At the Hoser Hut, another stripper was on the scene. Lily, it seemed, had no qualms when it came to organising her best friend's hen night._

I stared in blank disbelief when he burst out of the cardboard cake. How in the world could someone look so much like another guy? How could they _not_ be related? Were they clones?

I finally realised why John and Sherlock had been so freaked out upon seeing the American cop 'doppelgangers'. Because right there, in a scandalously revealing New York police uniform, dancing on the tabletop in front of us, was a man who looked very much like a certain detective I knew.

"_Oh my God!" Luke cringed, burying his head in his hands to try and block out the mental image._

"_No way! Uncle Shock has a stripper look-alike?" Leia gasped._

"_W-what?" I may have blushed a little - the very idea! I think the kids didn't notice, though. "No! No, no, no! He didn't look like Sherlock - he was the spitting image of Greg Lestrade!"_

"…_That's nearly as bad!" Luke groaned, and Leia grimaced in agreement._

_So anyway…_

Stripper Lestrade was getting his groove on - _"Mum, please stop before I throw up." _

Er… the hockey match had stopped for half time, and Robin came over to me and Lily. Apparently she was quite well known in the Hoser Hut, and they all wanted to buy her drinks... she was _really_ drunk by this point. I mean like 'walking in a zigzag, blinking a lot and laughing too loudly at everything' drunk.

"You know what, Lily, you were right…" Robin said, swaying almost imperceptibly as she spoke. "Getting married without having some kind of lesbian experience… It's just laaame." Lily looked oddly excited. I just blinked in confusion, feeling like this conversation would _really _have benefited from some context - but I was never given any, and later I felt too awkward about the whole thing to ask. Plus I don't think Robin can actually remember most of that night; she had been drinking a _lot._

"Hey Robin, if that's how you feel, maybe you and I could - " Lily began, but Robin cut her off.

"Not you, Lily, you don't count! Besides, we've already done that, remember?"

_Like I said, context would've been a _real_ help just then. I mean, I knew they were close, but I hadn't thought… But hey, you never can tell._

"Aww…" Lily sighed. "But there're hardly any girls in here, and most of them are flirting with the guys. Where are we gonna find you a single cutie?" She scanned the bar behind me, then swivelled her head back to look me up and down.

I realised with a sinking feeling what was running through her head.

"Uh, n-no, I really don't think that'd be appropriate…" I squeaked, trying to edge away, but I just backed into the bar. There were people blocking my way on either side, and Lily and Robin were advancing on me.

"_Mum!"_

"_What the hell?"_

Robin stood in front of me, and although I could see she was pretty, I just didn't feel attracted to her at all. My eyes darted around desperately for an escape, but I had no such luck.

"Kiss already!" Lily said, pushing Robin forwards. She was only a few inches away from me, and I could smell the gin on her breath.

"B-but… I'm not…" I started to protest.

"Oh, be a man, Molly! …Figuratively speaking." Lily huffed. "Some of us would jump at the chance you're getting."

"Please, Molly? It's just one kiss…" Robin wheedled.

_I'm pretty sure your Aunt Robin never sounded that needy unless she'd had a few - she was way too proud to plead the rest of the time. I had a feeling that she and Lily wouldn't let the idea go anytime soon. And Robin was verging on tears by this point._

"Am I not pretty enough? Is that it? I was never good enough at being a boy for my father, and now I'm not even pretty enough to - "

_Kids, let's just say I interrupted her at that point._

When we pulled apart, there was a flash of light. I turned to glare at Lily, who tucked her phone back into her bag.

"What?" She asked, all innocently.

"…Show that to anyone, and I will bring the whole Robin Sparkles fandom crashing down on you." I growled. "They all ship her with Jessica Glitter, so believe me when I say it could get violent."

_Normally I'm the least vicious person I know. But I couldn't stand the idea of Lily taking advantage of my childhood heroine while she was under the influence of alcohol. It hadn't even been that big of a deal. Really._

"Oh, it's just for… uh… personal use." Lily blushed.

"What, do you mean like… blackmail?" I was puzzled. Still, sometimes friends did like to take the mickey out of each other for their drunken antics. Who was I to judge?

"Sure - yeah - that's what I meant!" Lily laughed nervously, but she didn't meet my eyes.

"_Vastly inappropriate." Leia muttered._

xxx

_Okay, well, that's quite enough of that! At the Lusty Leopard, things were also heating up…_

_Not that Robin and I… Uh… Oh, good grief…_

_Nothing else happened, I swear!_

_Anyway…_

"So Barney, how's your last night of freedom treating you?"

John asked as he returned to the table with the next round of drinks. He had to hand it to Barney: the guy may not have the classiest idea of a party (not that he was complaining, he hadn't been to a strip club since his Army days - who had the time, or the money?) but he did have excellent taste in whisky.

"Not bad, John, not bad at all!" Barney grinned, grabbing a glass of Scotch from him. "In fact, tonight's events are gonna be legen - wait for it…"

"Dary?" Sherlock cut in, before the pause even had a chance to elongate.

"Exactly, bro!" Barney grinned, holding up a hand for Sherlock to high-five.

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

John reluctantly high-fived Barney so he wouldn't be left hanging for hours - Ted had been regaling them all with stories of Barney's antics over the years, so John knew it was a genuine risk.

Ted, meanwhile, was somewhat tipsy and unsuccessfully attempting to seduce a woman at the bar, who bore quite a resemblance to Robin - save for the short-cropped hair and ever-present chewing gum.

Sherlock watched them without much interest, automatically running through deductions about the woman: gay, uninterested, amused that Ted hasn't noticed - because really, how many straight women frequent strip clubs? - so letting him continue, taking advantage of the free drinks this is scoring her, doesn't tend to drink often because she's a professional hockey player and needs to stay in shape… These factors combined mean that she's likely to become _very_ uninhibited in let's say twenty minutes, judging by her build and the three empty glasses beside her. This will likely lead to her being dragged from the Lusty Leopard by one of the bouncers, but as she'll be quite far gone by that point she'll probably kick up a fuss, people will stop what they're doing to rubberneck (fascinating how many people do that, but how few take the time to _think_ about what they're witnessing) and she'll start to play to the audience, shouting something incoherent about lawsuits, violence or gender equality depending on her personality type, and the management will crank up the music to drown her out, maybe offer a discount to get people's attention away, allowing the bouncers to drag or carry her away…

Wait a second.

Sandy MacLaren's room.

It hadn't smelled like chloroform or any kind of paralytic. She would have been awake when the killer came into the room, since the door hinges squeaked and the window was locked, suggesting the killer entered by the door (although that was locked too, no sign of a forced entry, but then it hadn't been hard to get hold of a keycard…). If she'd been abducted from that room, there would have been more signs of a struggle. People would have heard her. Someone would have noticed.

Unless she hadn't disappeared at that location.

But why would the killer trouble to get hold of her anyway? What possible use was she? Surely taking her after killing Carl would just make them look even more suspicious…

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, as the truth dawned on him. "Of course! Stupid, stupid, how did I not see it before?"

"…Uh, Sherlock?" Barney asked, staring at him. Sherlock didn't answer, staring blankly into the middle distance, not even processing the sight of random strippers gyrating before his eyes. His expression glazed over.

"Uh, don't worry, Barney. He's fine." John said. "He gets like that sometimes, usually right before he hits on the solution to someth - "

"They didn't take her from the hostel! They kidnapped her right under Carl's nose, before he died! The killer was using her as _ransom_ to manipulate him!" Sherlock said, eyes snapping back into focus as he spun to face John and Barney. "Sandy MacLaren is being held hostage!"

"What?" Barney said, paling at the thought of the whole MacLaren case. "By who?"

"Whom." Sherlock muttered. John shook his head. Trust Sherlock to be pedantic even at the most inappropriate times! "My current theory is her brother's killer, or someone linked to the case, but I haven't got much data to go on."

"More importantly, why haven't they let her go?" John wondered. "I mean, Carl can hardly be manipulated now…"

"Hmm." Sherlock's self-satisfied smirk faded off his face for a moment, but quickly made a comeback. "Covering their tracks, probably. Releasing her would allow her to report the situation to the police, possibly even identifying the kidnapper. Better to keep her where she is until the homicide investigation dies down, then they can dispose of her quietly."

"They're going to kill her?" Barney asked hoarsely.

"Almost certainly." Sherlock answered him, absently swirling his half-finished Scotch. "The question is, when?"

_And kids, that was the end of your Uncle Barney's stag night. Sherlock called __Andrews, John called a cab, and Barney called the bartender over and paid the tab. Then they raced off into the night, abandoning Ted and Barney's 'guys' to the morally questionable delights of the Lusty Leopard._

_It was a race against time to find and rescue Sandy MacLaren..._

_If she was still alive, that was._

**A/N So there you have it! ****Okay, this chapter has a lot of stuff crammed into it... But, a**fter that massive detour from the plot, we bring you something actually relevant to the case! Hopefully you enjoyed reading about that "tangential period where the case didn't progress"... The thing is, we didn't want the HIMYM cast to just leap into crime-solving with the Sherlock characters because that seems very unlikely. Better to have them _try _to get on with their lives before getting swept along on the tide of insanity that seems to come bundled with Sherlock. 

**The next chapter is plotted, but we haven't written any of it up yet - remember real life? It's still conspiring against us, unfortunately. But trust us, when it comes, it'll be worth the wait. (We hope!)**

**Why not fill the time between reading this and getting to the next chapter by giving us a review? **


	11. Chapter 8 and a half

**A/N And now, ladies and gentlemen, we present... The moment you've all been waiting for... The moment we get to the PLOT!**

**Warnings for some potentially upsetting themes to do with Robin and Barney's situations. Please use your discretion. We don't want to put spoilers up here, so if you're worried, please check the A/N at the end for details.**

_Kids, sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better… _

_That night was no better._

_Andrews had been busy with paperwork (even though it was the evening - apparently he didn't like to waste time stuck in an office when he was at work) but he promised to help them out the next day. It had turned out that there wasn't anything they could do that night, and after spending several hours trying to find further leads following your Uncle Shock's revelation, they gave up._

"So we're really giving up?" John asked.

"We are not giving up. We are simply taking a few hours to reflect upon the data we've gathered and come up with a plan of attack." Sherlock replied.

"So… we're giving up, just for the time being."

"Shut up, John!"

_So the three of them went back to the Lusty Leopard, scraped your father off the floor and stopped Uncle Marshall playing Scrabble with Stripper Lily before going home. The way your Uncle Shock tells it, every single word on the board was either related to babies or sex - three guesses which belonged to who._

"_To whom each category belonged." Leia muttered. I decided to ignore her…and to reduce her Uncle Shock time in future._

xxx

_That night, once your Uncle Barney had taken your father home and put him in the recovery position - which impressed me, as I hadn't thought he was that practically-minded - he went to your Aunt Robin's apartment._

_There were some things they had to discuss…_

Knock-knock-knock. "Robin?" Knock-knock-knock. "Robin!" Knock-knock-knock. "Scherbatsky, open the door already."

_Now, fortunately for your Uncle Barney, the unsuccessful case attempts had given your Aunt Robin enough time to recover from her slight over-indulgence that evening. Thankfully, she was sober enough to get to the door._

_With an ice-pack held to her head._

…_She'd had a _lot_ to drink, alright?_

"Barney?" She groaned. "What're you doing here? Do you even know what time it is?"

"…Uh, no. It's just, uh, this is kind of important." He said, looking everywhere except at her as he spoke, and shuffling from foot to foot.

"Oh. Okay… Come in. I'll move John's blankets off the couch - he won't mind, he and Sherlock are busy Skyping some guy who looks just like this stripper Lily hired for m- I mean, this guy who was at the Hoser Hut."

_What can I say? She may have been hungover, but she still had _some_ sense of tact._

They sat on opposite ends of the sofa.

"So what's - "

"Robin, I - "

"Sorry!"

"Sorry!"

"You go first!"

"You go first!"

Robin put her hand over his mouth before it could continue.

"This is _your_ conversation, Barney. Why are you at my apartment at stupid o'clock in the morning?"

"Because I… Uh… There's something I need to tell you. Something I haven't told you before. And, um, you might hate me when you hear it. But I swear, I never meant to upset you, and I never thought we'd get to the whole marriage thing so I thought it wouldn't matter, 'cause you'd move on and find someone awesome - well, awesom_er_ - and you'd never need to know, but…" He paused to draw breath. "Here we are."

"Barney, you're making me kinda worried…"

"I just want you to know… Because relationships are meant to be built on trust, right? And that means no secrets. Right, here goes…" He took a deep breath, looked Robin straight in the eyes for the first time in the whole conversation and said: "Robin, _I'm_ the one that Sherlock called an 'escort' when he first met me. And he was right."

Robin just stared at him.

"I mean, technically my job title is an 'input and output data flow specialist', which doesn't necessarily involve getting into bed with clients in any way, except when it does. But it's only on certain occasions, and I swear that when I've been dating you I didn't take on any of those cases - "

"But you did the rest of the time?"

"Well… yeah. It's my job."

"Were you even planning to tell me about this before the wedding?"

"No! I mean, yes. I mean… damn it. There isn't really a procedure for this."

"Gee, I wonder why!" Robin snapped. "How the hell did I not know this? Why didn't I figure this out? I mean, you were always looking for the next bit of skirt, why _wouldn't_ you take your hobby and make a job out of it? God knows your conscience wouldn't have been an issue! I mean, it's not as if women's feelings ever mattered to you. I bet you never even thought about the impact this would have on them - or me." She paused and stared at him in horrified realisation. "Oh my God. M-me. You're a hooker. That's what you do. You sleep with strange women. Or maybe even men. Whoever. You don't pick and choose; you screw whoever they tell you to, or whoever you manage to pick up in a bar… You were bound to catch something, bound to have been careless just once… It must have been _you_."

"What? I don't understand." Barney said, totally confused by the path her train of thought had taken.

"It was you, wasn't it? You caught something, and passed it on to me, and now…" Robin buried her head in her hands. "Now I can't ever have kids, and it's all your fault!"

Barney stared at her as she curled up on the other end of the sofa, sobbing her heart out. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort her somehow, but he knew that would just make things worse.

Instead, he grabbed the bundle of blankets from next to the sofa and hugged them tightly to his chest, pretending it was Robin, and he wondered…

How had she not told him about her infertility before now?

And worse, what if her theory was right? He always, _always_ used protection… But what if he messed up? What if he'd been drunk and couldn't remember?

What if… What if he, Barney Stinson, had caused the only woman he cared about all this misery?

"Robin, I-" He started, voice wavering. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say to her. 'Sorry'? How could that ever even begin to cover it? 'I love you'? Useless. He didn't get the chance to say anything anyway, as Robin sprang up from the couch and yelled:

"Get out, Barney! Just get _out_!" She flung the nearest thing to hand - a cushion - at his face. He dropped the blankets and fell off the end of the couch. "You've done enough! I never want to see you again!"

As Barney threw open the door and raced down the hallway he heard her shout after him: "And to think I was going to _marry _you!"

…_Worse before they get better, kids._

_When your Uncle John crept into the room a few minutes later, after the smashing noises had stopped and the sobs had decreased in volume slightly, he found your Aunt Robin kneeling on the sofa, punching the bundle of blankets over and over again. All around her, and covering the floor, were shards of broken plates, fragments of shattered glass, and the splintered remnants of a wooden photo frame that had probably contained a photograph of her and Barney, judging by the torn-up scraps on the floor._

_Your Uncle John is a good man in a storm, kids. He didn't make a fuss, didn't ask what had happened, just walked into the kitchen and grabbed a dustpan and brush. _

_Once he'd cleared a path through the destruction and was able to safely approach Robin, he scooped her up into a bridal hold (though the situation was the polar opposite of romantic) and carried her carefully into her room, tucked her into bed, and returned a few minutes later with a mug of sweet, hot tea and a carton of ice cream from the fridge._

She stared at him for a moment, then chuckled weakly.

"Honestly, John - it's not like ice-cream can fix it!"

"…It does in rom-coms." He mumbled, and then cleared his throat. "Wanna talk about it, Rob?"

"Not yet." Her breath caught in her throat and she stifled another sob. "But, um, thanks."

"I'll be just in the other room if you need me." John leant over and gave her a brief one-armed hug. "It'll be okay. Maybe not right now, but it'll get better. And until then, you've got me… And the ice-cream." He pulled away with a half-smile, hoping to decrease the tension in the room. It seemed to work - Robin gave him a weak smirk, took a sip of her tea, and told him he was an idiot. He grinned.

"Yeah, love you too. Goodnight."

And with that, he returned to the main room, where Sherlock had been industriously clearing up the wreckage from Robin's breakdown and trying not to make any noise.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked. There was a hint of real concern in his voice, though it was more for John than for the blogger's cousin. Still, John cared about her. That made her important, made her feelings important. If she hurt, John hurt. And if John hurt, Sherlock would hunt down whoever was responsible.

"…I think the worst is over." John said, cautiously kneeling to pick up some of the larger pieces of broken crockery. "Maybe things will look better in the morning."

"Maybe." Said Sherlock, who was more than a little out of his depth from all the emotional chaos Robin had unleashed on her fiancé and possessions. "You shouldn't sleep in here tonight, anyway. It's impossible to get all of the glass cleared away."

"I am _not _sharing a bed with you, Sherlock." John glared at him. "The sofa will be fine."

"Really? You _are_ aware that, quite aside from the risk of shards, an ice-pack has been melting on it since the… confrontation?"

"What?" John turned to look at the sofa. Sure enough, just under the bundle of blankets, there lay the soggy remains of Robin's ice-pack. "You have _got_ to be kidding me…"

"Look, I'll take the floor. It'll be fine." Sherlock said, picking up the dustpan and carrying it over to the trashcan in the kitchen to empty it.

"But - "

"I _said_, I'll take the floor. You need more rest than me anyway. Besides, didn't you offer to do the same in the Speckled Blonde case?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "It'd be double standards if you refuse." John considered this for a moment, and concluded that this was not a discussion he was likely to win.

"…Well, thanks. Really." John said, carrying the larger pieces he'd gathered to the kitchen and putting them in the bin. "I think that's most of it. Let's go to bed."

He froze, realising how that had sounded.

"I didn't mean - "

Sherlock chuckled. "I know, I know. You overcomplicate things sometimes, John."

"_I_ do?" John spluttered indignantly. Before he could formulate a proper reply, Sherlock lightly pushed him out of the kitchen.

"Come along, then. Busy day tomorrow." Sherlock walked over to the door of the guest bedroom, paused, reviewed the conversation in his mind, and added: "I'm sure things will look better in the morning."

_And kids, he was kind of right. _

_Of course the next day was better for Robin… It could hardly have got worse for her by that point._

_Unfortunately, the next day was also the day when we got a fresh lead for the case._

"_What do you mean, 'unfortunately', Mum?"_

_Well… You see…_

_It was also the day that things went horribly wrong for your Uncle Marshall and Aunt Lily. The day their world got turned upside-down._

_But we'll get to that._

**A/N ...Nah. Just kidding. Here, have some angst instead of plot, and also we hope you have a nice April Fool's Day! Never fear, readers, we will... eventually... finish up the next chapter.**

**Really.**

**Did you enjoy the epic fails of this chapter? Why not review and let us know?**

**WARNINGS: discussion of Barney's profession as an escort and its potential consequences for Robin - basically, given how many people he sleeps with, it's possible that he caught an STD and passed it on to Robin unknowlngly, resulting in her infertility. We thought we'd better warn you because it's a darker theme than we'd normally go for, and we don't want to cause anyone any distress. Thanks for reading, whether or not you stop here. Have a nice day!**


	12. Chapter 9

**A/N So, readers, we wanted to explore the fallout from the events of last chapter. You could skip this chapter if you don't want to see Robin failing to deal with her situation. All you need to know is that there's a set-up for an interview with a witness, which will be coming soon, and Molly making tea at the end. (Why so British, Molly?)**

_Admittedly, things did look a little better in the morning… with the notable exception of your Aunt Robin's living room, which looked as if a bomb had hit it despite John and Sherlock's best efforts to clear the worst of the debris. Of course, had their housekeeper _–_ or she might be their landlady _–_ been there, the room would've been spotless. But she wasn't, and Robin's room was an absolute tip._

_Now kids, there are times in life when you just have to intervene. This was one of those times._

_You know that someone needs help dealing with something when they break every single piece of crockery in their kitchen in less than ten minutes._

_And so, we decided that what was needed was _–

"An intervention " Robin took a step back, trying to edge out of Marshall and Lily's apartment. "I _so_ do not need this right now!" She hissed as I edged around her to block the exit.

"Actually, Robin, I think this is exactly what you need. You know, we love you, and we're worried about you." Marshall stepped forward, handing Robin a glass of warm milk.

"Milk? I think I'd be better off with a Scotch…"

"It's only nine-thirty in the morning, Robin. Now drink your milk like a good girl, and I'll give you some cookies to go with it." Lily said, emerging from the kitchen with a large plate of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies.

_What can I say? Her maternal instincts had kicked into overdrive when I told her about Robin's… er… episode. _

"_How did you hear about it?"_

"_Oh, Sherlock texted me that morning at six a.m. saying that he was bored now that the drama had died down and everyone was asleep. Of course, my phone woke me up, and I had nothing better to do than reply and find out what happened."_

"_Yeah, sounds like something he'd do." Luke smirked._

_Anyway, when I heard Marvin cry half an hour later, I went into the nursery and told Lily about it. She told Marshall and we agreed to hold an intervention. Well, they agreed, and I sort of got dragged into it by helping to put up the banner. You know the one, kids._

_We had planned to leave Sherlock and John to catch up on their sleep, but John wanted to stay with Robin, and Sherlock decided to tag along._

"Robin, what happened with Barney was a big thing. We want you to know that we're all here for you." I piped up. Robin was my childhood hero, but more importantly, she was now one of my friends. I wanted to help her out however I could.

"Thanks, Molly, but I'm fine." Robin forced a bright smile, but it wasn't fooling anyone. "I'm totally not falling apart because he lied to me for all this time and didn't even care about it." Her voice had risen to an unusually high pitch. Lily shot her a look and Robin took a deep, calming breath before speaking more normally. "Nope. Everything's just peachy."

Robin took a gulp of warm milk and grabbed a cookie from the plate Lily offered her. She didn't add anything. There was no need – we could all tell she was in a bad way.

"Evidently, everything is not just peachy." Sherlock began, looking Robin up and down. "First of all, last n–"

"Sherlock!" John said, with forced cheerfulness. "Weren't we going to uh… do some case work? Like, now?"

"Wha–?"

"Yes!" I interrupted, seeing John's pleading expression. "Didn't you need to go and, er, interview a witness?"

_God knows Robin didn't need to hear Sherlock's deductions about how she was feeling _–_ it was tough enough to deal with if you started off in a good mood, like I had at that Christmas party… But that's getting off-topic. _

"A witness?" Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at me. "Has one come forward?"

"Um, n-no, not exactly…" I stuttered. "B-but I think the police will have finished questioning the waitress by today."

"The waitress?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. He clearly thought I was making something up, and wasn't looking forward to dealing with the fallout when Sherlock realised there was no new witness. But I wasn't, of course.

_Lying is bad, kids. _

_Unless it's for an investigation, the greater good, or to protect someone else's feelings. That's where your Uncle Barney went wrong _–_ he lied to Robin to protect himself. Or at least, he held back vital information from her. Same thing, almost._

"Yes, I think her name is Wendy! I saw her talking to Carl the evening before he died. They seemed to be on good terms; she might know something about what happened."

"Thank you, Molly. We'll get right on it." John said firmly, as he dragged Sherlock out of the apartment, oblivious to the taller man's complaints ("I should've remembered that the waitress and the bartender were having an affair! Stupid! It was so obvious!")

"Oh, and John?" I called after him. His head peered around the door. "I think you should talk to Louise. She might be able to get leads from Mycroft… And also you should check up on her. Seeing Carl that night gave her quite a fright, right?"

_I sounded like a page out of a Dr. Seuss book at the end there, and started blushing the moment I finished the sentence. Thankfully John just nodded and made a swift exit._

_He and Sherlock went downstairs, and_– _no, wait. I'll finish telling you about the intervention first!_

"Well, uh, now that's all sorted, we should get back to you, Robin." I said.

"No, no, I think we should talk about the case instead!" Robin said. "That would be distracting – I mean, fun!"

"Robin, honey, c'mon." Lily said, going to stand next to Robin and putting an arm around her. "I know this whole 'Barney is an escort' thing must have come as a shock. I mean, when I figured it out, I was like 'no freakin' way', but then the more I thought about it I realised that it hasn't changed who he is, I mean he's still the friend I know and – "

"Stop."

We all stared at Robin. There was something in her voice that suggested not shutting up would result in losing a limb. Not that it held Lily back for more than a few tense seconds.

"Robin, what's–?" The redhead began.

"When exactly did you learn about Barney?" There was a dark tone to Robin's voice. I was a little scared.

_Can you blame me, kids? She carries a pair of _guns_ in her handbag _–_ and she sounded like she was barely staving off all-out rage. There was a note of hysteria in there too, and her voice was level but quavering ever so slightly. _

_If it weren't for Sherlock's influence, I would have only picked up that she was holding back some sort of strong emotion. But after a while you pick up the habit of observation._

"Well, I…" Lily looked a little frightened too. "It was after Marshall hit Sherlock and it just sort of clicked as I was sitting there. I mean, 'escort' doesn't necessarily mean a girl… But I thought I was reading too much into it. Then I had a nightmare about Barney dressed in one of the outfits from the Lusty Leopard, and I woke up and decided to go and talk to him…"

_Lying to protect someone else's feelings, kids. Lily had known it was true the moment she looked at Barney and saw his expression when Sherlock spoke. (She told me so a few months later.) But she didn't want it to seem like it had been obvious… And also, then she'd have to admit to waiting until Robin was at work and out of the way before she confronted Barney. Given Robin's current mood, that wouldn't have been a smart idea._

_So Lily lied._

_Okay, it wasn't just for the sake of her best friend's feelings _–_ it was partly to protect herself. _

_I guess morality isn't that clear-cut when it comes to lying. You'll just have to judge people's actions for yourselves, kids._

"So you knew a whole day before me, and you didn't say anything " Robin yelled.

"I told Barney to tell you. I thought it'd be better coming from him…" Lily trailed off miserably. I felt sorry for her. She'd tried to be sensitive, and it hadn't done much good.

"Oh, right! Of course! Because it _always _feels _better _being told that you've been lied to by the one you thought you could trust with anything!" Robin snapped.

"Hold on, Robin. Lily didn't mean to upset you. She was just trying to do what she thought was best." Marshall said, pulling Lily to one side. "Lilypad, how about you go check on Marvin? Me and Molly have got this."

Lily took one last look at Robin, who was glaring daggers at her, and sadly slunk into the nursery.

_I agreed with your Uncle Marshall. No way should your Aunt Robin have taken out her anger on your Aunt Lily… _

_But I was just an outsider back then. I didn't belong in the group. Without your Uncle John there, I had no real reason to be present. I had absolutely no clue why Marshall was including me in whatever was left of this 'intervention' thing._

"So, Marshall, what next? Barney told you last week?" Robin snarled.

"No, actually. I only heard about it after the whole fiasco last night." Marshall said softly. "And Robin, I just want you to know… I know."

"_Know what?"_

"You know…?" Robin said, confusedly.

"That you're not going to be a – " Marshall glanced sideways at me. "A pole-vaulter."

_Was 'pole-vaulter' some kind of American slang term for something?_

"Wait, what?"

"I _know_, Robin. That you, uh, don't meet the… physical requirements for that."

"Oh my God…" Robin buried her head in her hands.

_Kids, something major was going down here. But I had no idea what it was._

I steered her over to the sofa and sat her down in the centre, handing her a cookie. Marshall followed us and sat on Robin's right, so I sat on her left.

"I'm a little lost," I confessed, "but I'm sure that, whatever 'being a pole-vaulter' means here, there are plenty of other great things you can do with your life. Please don't cry, Robin."

"I'm not crying," Robin sobbed, taking a bite of her cookie and swallowing thickly. "Scherbatsky men never c-cry…"

'Men?' I mouthed to Marshall, who just shook his head. I decided to leave it.

"Robin," Marshall awkwardly shuffled closer to her, and she looked up, with tearstains, mascara and cookie crumbs on her face. "You are beautiful, and special, and a great person. I know you must have been worried about telling Barney that you can't… pole-vault… but I swear, if Lily had come to me on our wedding night and said that, it wouldn't have changed how I feel about her at all." He put an arm around her. "Because I believe, with all my heart, that true love can overcome anything. Even the most unexpected secrets."

"B-but it's not just… Marshall, it's not that he didn't tell me… I know, I've been keeping this a secret from him, and when I woke up this morning, I thought: 'who am I to judge? I lied to him all this time.' But then I remembered why I was so angry last night. It wasn't that he lied. I can look past that. At least he came clean about it before the wedding. But…"

_It was a big 'but'._

"But, even though I lied to him, my lie never _hurt_ him. While his… his might be the reason I had to lie in the first place."

"What?" Marshall stared at her, and his lawyerly logic assembled the facts (which I was still not privy to) into order. "Oh… Oh, Jesus, Robin, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"

He gave her a bear hug and smoothed her hair while she cried into his shoulder.

_It was a personal, tender moment, and I was totally intruding just by being there._

_So I did what any Brit would do under such circumstances._

I mumbled something incoherent about everyone feeling better after a nice hot cup of tea and extricated myself from the living room, beating a quick retreat to the kitchen.

_Kids, I would only come to understand the significance of that exchange much later on, once I was back in the U.K. and I asked Mrs. Hudson if she knew what 'pole-vault' meant in American slang _–_ after all, her husband was executed in Florida, so she had a link to the place _–_ and your Uncle John overheard me and explained what he'd heard on 'the night of the big reveals', as he put it._

Right then, all I could do was be vaguely supportive and put the kettle on. So I did that to the best of my ability… After all, nobody feels better for a badly made cuppa.

**A/N Another chapter, and soon, we believe, the plot will emerge from the murky depths of our notes…Maybe. Updates may or may not become more frequent in the next month or so. We make no promises. If any of our loyal (wonderful, amazing) reviewers are still left, we're really sorry about what we put you guys through (please don't leave us)!**


	13. Chapter 9 and a half

**A/N ****We meant to save this update for a few days, rather than springing a double update out of the blue… But then we discovered it was **Mord-Sith Rahl**'s birthday, and we _did _****have a chapter written already, so here it is. Happy Birthday, **Mord-Sith Rahl**!**

**(PS. To all our other reviewers, frequent or fleeting, we wish you happy birthdays as well for whenever that's appropriate! Every one of your reviews brightens up our days!)**

_So while I was living out every socially awkward person's worst nightmare, here's what John and Sherlock were doing…_

John closed the door on the intervention with some relief, as he'd had enough of those to last a lifetime during Harry's teenage years. Sherlock was already halfway down the stairs, and John half-jogged to catch up with him.

"So what's the plan? We find the waitress, ask some questions, snoop around her house…?" John asked, as Sherlock executed a flawless cab-hailing manoeuvre and hopped into the yellow vehicle. John was about to follow him, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Yes, _I'm _going to do that, while _you _are going to talk to Andrews and see if there's been any new developments, any links to the waitress, and so on. We'll meet up at Ted's in two hours." Sherlock announced, closing the car door and barking an address at the driver.

John stared at the taxi, rendered momentarily speechless. He found his voice after a few seconds, and shouted after the retreating cab: "I could just _call _him!" He sighed. The Holmes brothers should really reconsider their distaste for getting in touch like normal people.

Well, nothing for it but to make that phone call and prove his point.

John flicked through his contacts and selected the number marked 'ANDREWS – NOT ANDERSON'.

"Hello, this is Detective Nathan Andrews, NYPD. Who's calling?"

"Hi, this is Doctor John Watson, we met the other day… You might not remember me but–"

"Oh yeah, what can I do for you, Doctor Watson? Does Mr. Holmes need something? I assume he wouldn't call me himself if he did!" The detective said jovially.

"He prefers to text. You…know who I am? As in you remember meeting me?" John was nonplussed. This was almost unprecedented. Ever since he had met Sherlock, John had become used to people paying attention to the tall, rude genius rather than his short, apologetic friend.

"Of course! How could I forget meeting such an Internet sensation?"

"Well I wouldn't say 'sensation'…" John mumbled. "Um, anyway, yes. Sherlock was wondering if you'd had any luck turning up new leads?"

"Hmm, not really. Nothing directly related." Andrews admitted. "We're looking into a few other disappearances from the area, mostly single women under the age of thirty. But so far there are no clear links to the murder or Ms. MacLaren's kidnapping... Sorry."

"Oh, no, no – that's fine! Call me if anything comes up though, yeah?"

"Sure! I can't wait to read about this on your blog!"

"Uh, great. Thanks Andr– Anders– Andrews." John closed the phone and cursed. Even their voices sounded alike. This was going to be hell when he went back to London and saw his least favourite Yarder again.

But it was interesting… Recent disappearances, plenty of young women reported missing… The kidnapper again? But that would mean he didn't just take Sandy because she was linked to Carl… John's head was spinning, but unlike Sherlock he didn't consider that a good thing. He just couldn't make the puzzle pieces fit together.

And what was worse, he hadn't heard Sherlock when he gave the cabbie Wendy's address and he couldn't remember what it was. John sighed. Maybe Molly or Rob would know. It was a bit of a long shot, but it couldn't hurt to ask. They _were_ just in the building behind him, after all. Sherlock need never know that John forgot the suspect's address…

_It was about that point that John came bursting into the apartment. I was still in the kitchen having just made Robin and Marshall some tea. _

"Molly!"

_I was rooted to the spot. Did somebody actually need my help? This never happened!_

"Molly? Are you still here–? Marshall, what are you doing with Rob?" John tailed off into total confusion as he looked at the two of them embracing on the couch.

"It's fine, John, really." I said, hurrying into the room with a mug of tea in each hand. I put them down in front of Robin and Marshall, and then grabbed John's hand. "Let's go and get lunch, I'm starving!" I said, practically dragging him out of the room.

"But it's still the morning!" He protested in an undertone.

"Brunch, then!" I said, as I towed him downstairs. "Definitely time for brunch."

_Marshall had the Robin situation under control, and John was clearly frazzled._

_It was my task to get Robin the breathing space she needed to talk things through with Marshall. To do that, I might as well find out why John had wanted to talk to me. It'd be killing two birds with one stone._

"Uh, Molly…" John said, as we power-walked down the street.

"Yes?"

"Can you, um, let go of my hand now, please?" He was actually blushing. Bless. "I mean, I can tell you're keen to get some brunch, but really, even Sherlock would've let go by this point…"

"Oh!" I'd totally forgotten that I'd taken his hand. Heat of the moment, I suppose. I let go. "Sorry about that!" I didn't even blush. We both knew there was nothing going on between us, after all. "So, um, how did it go? Did you and Sherlock find Wendy?"

"We split up," John said.

"To look for clues?" I giggled. John smirked as we walked into a diner – yes, a real-life American diner. There was a giant inflatable Elvis in one corner, for some reason, and the floor was covered in black and white checkered tiles. Now that I thought about it, brunch sounded great.

"You could say that. He's looking for the waitress; he told me to contact Andrews but nothing came of it." John said, sitting down and checking the menu. I did the same. Waffles or pancakes? At last, a dilemma with an easy solution. I ordered waffles, John got pancakes, and we swapped half our meals when they arrived a few minutes later. Service in the U.S.A. was _fast_, and much more cheerful than back at home.

"So why'd you come back to the apartment looking for me?" I asked between mouthfuls of brunchy goodness.

"Because, uh… well to be honest, I forgot where Wendy – the waitress? – lives, and I was going to ask Rob, but she seemed… busy." He paused, his forkful of pancake halfway to his mouth, then set it down and continued. "But, um, now that you're here… I sort of need your advice. About Anthea, uh, I mean Lou–"

"It's fine, John, I know who you mean. What about her?"

"I think she likes me." This remark was addressed to his food, and his gaze remained firmly trained on the table as he spoke.

_Yes. It really was an awkward moment._

He took the opportunity to take a few bites of pancake.

_It seemed to be my turn to speak… Not that I was particularly tactful about this obviously awkward topic._

"She likes you? Like, she _like likes_ you? Please, from what I've seen she treats you and Sherlock with this sort of disdainful air, like you're little boys she's been lumped with for babysitting. No way does she fancy you, John."

"Seriously, Molly, I think she does." He sounded a bit freaked out by the whole idea.

"Um, I don't want to sound mean, but are you sure it's not just, er, well, wishful thinking on your part?"

"Nope. I tried to ask her out when we first met, got rejected, moved on. No big deal." He sighed. "I mean, okay, it was a bit disappointing, but I got over it in about ten minutes. I don't have a crush on her or anything that could cloud my judgement."

"So why do you think she likes you?"

"It's all Sherlock's bloody fault. He makes deductions about people all the time, and often as not he picks up stuff about their relationships. When you hang around him as much as I do, you start to make little connections as well." John rolled his eyes. "Like, he'll say: 'oh, clearly she likes him, look at her make-up, she's overdone the perfume, she's maintaining eye contact whenever she can' and then I remember it when I see someone with those signs, and I think 'oh, she likes him'. It's actually kind of fun… Until it affects _my_ life. And I think Anthea likes me. It's really awkward. I don't know what it is, but she's acting differently with me. Talks to me like I'm a person, not just some troublesome kid – you're right, she did used to treat me like she was my babysitter – and suddenly there's overwhelming perfume, not just the usual spritz of it, and she's hanging on my every word, not even _looking_ at her BlackBerry!"

"Wait, not even once? During the whole time you were talking?"

"Not even a glance."

"…John, I think she likes you."

It was the only logical conclusion. I had never, ever seen Louise go less than three minutes without tapping away at that thing. I'd just assumed it was an integral part of her existence, like John's hand tremor, or Sherlock's habit of never meeting someone's eyes unless it was at a vital point in a case.

"Exactly, right?"

"Weird."

"Yep."

"Has she said anything to you?"

"Nope."

"Maybe she's in denial?" I wondered. "I mean, it took me a while to admit that I liked Sh- uh, Jim. Though I'm long past that disaster. Sherlock did me a bit of a favour when he warned me about that guy. But you know how it is, sometimes it takes you a while to figure out how you feel about someone." For some reason, an image of Ted flashed across my mind as I said that. "Your feelings can take you by surprise."

_Kids, sometimes love is blind. More often, love blinds you to things._

_But in hindsight, how did I not realise how I felt about your father sooner?_

"So what should I do?"

"Depends. Do you like her back?"

"I, uh… I'm not sure. She's attractive, and smart, and probably one of the only women on Earth who can deal with Sherlock… But most of the time she's really aloof. I don't know if she'd make a good girlfriend."

"Good point… hey, what do you mean 'most of the time'? Louise has _always_ been a bit distant, at least with me."

"With me too… Well, until she walked into MacLaren's and saw the crime scene, anyway. Then she was so freaked out, it was like she couldn't keep up her defences any more. She actually seemed kind of sweet… Oh, what am I even saying? Mycroft would bloody _kill_ me if I asked her out!"

"Well, yeah… but then, didn't he kidnap you within a day of you meeting Sherlock? Even that didn't stop you from becoming his friend. I don't think Mycroft has any extra defences for Louise that he wouldn't have used to try and protect Sherlock – "

"I hope not!" John smirked.

"Aha!" I said triumphantly. "So you _do _like her back!"

"What?"

"You _hope_… You want to ask her out, you're just nervous about it. Aww, John, she's already rejected you once, and you survived. I'm sure you can handle it."

"We'll see. Anyway, promise me you won't breathe a word of this to Sherlock – he's insufferable about my love life, and I don't fancy being made fun of over Anthea…"

"I promise."

_I broke that promise, but we'll get to that later. It was necessary. That's all you need to know._

_Back at the apartment, your father had also been called to the intervention, but had run a little late, and only arrived as Robin left._

_No one ever found out what Marshall said to her that day, and neither of them talk about it, but Ted said that as he passed her in the doorway, she looked as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. _

Ted walked into the apartment just as Marshall took Marvin from Lily. She looked as though she had been crying, and Ted was just about to ask what had happened, when she cut him off.

"Ted! About time! Sit down, I'll get you a beer!"

"Lily, it's still morning!" Ted argued, shocked.

"Yeah, well with the sort of morning I've had, and the conversation we're _about _to have, I'm gonna need one so sit down and shut up, Mosby!"

Ted sat down obediently and looked over at Marshall, attempting to telepathically ask if Marvin had kept them up all night. 'Something like that' Marshall's expression seemed to say, as he bounced his son on his hip.

"So," Lily said, sitting on the couch and handing Ted his beer. "You and Molly."

Ted waited for her to say something else, but she just stared at him intently and nursed her beer.

"Me and Molly… what?"

"Are you going to ask her out sometime this century?" Lily pressed. "Ideally _before_ the wedding so the two of you can go together and… dance… together…?"

"What? Pft! What? No. Me and – No! What?" Ted squeaked.

"Ted." Lily said.

"Where do you guys get this stuff from?" Ted grumbled.

"Ted." Marshall added, letting Marvin chew on his finger.

"Also, isn't she supposed to be John's date?"

"Tah!" Marvin declared, causing all the room's inhabitants to coo at him briefly before returning to their discussion.

"From what I can tell, they're here as 'just friends' and John has the hots for that chick at the crime scene." Lily said sagely, taking a swig of her beer.

"What the hot EMT woman? I _knew_ there was a reason she wouldn't give me her number!"

Marshall and Lily exchanged long-suffering looks.

"No, Ted. She just wasn't into you." Lily said.

"You weren't even there!" Ted protested.

"Marshall told me." Lily explained. "And he also told me about the _ring_ on her finger!"

"Dammit, someone else liked it and put a ring on it before I could!" Ted muttered.

"Ted! You're missing the point!" Marshall huffed. "Molly is completely ring free _and_ she's into you!"

"What? No! Wh–?"

"Not again, Ted. Just accept it. We're right, and you should come to us for all your major life decisions!" Lily smirked, gesturing at him with her half-finished beer.

"How do you guys even know she's into me?"

"Ted! The two of you had a conversation _for an hour_ that consisted entirely of 'Fun Facts' about architecture and dead bodies." Marshall said. "_An hour, Ted_. Usually you get squeamish watching Scooby Doo! And girls normally tune out after the first two 'Fun Facts'!"

"Bu–"

"_Ted_ she _listened_ and _smiled_ when you told her about the different kinds of Greek pillar, then proceeded to tell you about corpses that get preserved in peat bogs!"

"Hey, the thing about Neolithic and Mesolithic bog bodies was cool!"

"Ted. _Ask her out_."

"But what if–?"

"Ask. Her. Out." Marshall and Lily said in perfect unison.

"But she's British!" Ted protested, unwilling to start a relationship that would quickly become long-distance.

_Which I can understand, because long-distance relationships suck, kids. Even with The One, they're a challenge to maintain._

"You will never find another girl like her. Ever." Lily said slowly and clearly.

"At least she's not Canadian!" Marshall quipped.

"I hate to say this Ted," Lily began, "but she could be The One."

Ted gasped. They were serious about this.

"You really mean that?" He whispered.

"Yes. I do." Lily nodded. "So get out there and go get her number, Tiger!"

"Yeah! I'm going to do that!" Ted stood up suddenly, handed his untouched beer to Lily and marched straight out of the door.

"Job well done, I'd say!" Lily said to her husband, saluting him with her fresh beer and taking a sip. Marshall nodded, then smacked a palm against his forehead.

"Oh, I was going to ask him to take the recycling down to the bins!" Marshall sighed. "I guess I'll just have to do it. Here, Marvin – go to Mommy, okay?"

"Don't be too long, baby. Space Teens is on soon!" Lily called after her husband as he walked down the stairs with two large bags of recycling.

_And of course, kids, this is the beginning of the story of how your Uncle Marshall's love for the planet almost got him killed._

**A/N Bear with us, readers. We **_**swear**_** there will be plot in the next chapter – honest! There will be plot and words and more words and then some punctuation to spice things up a little and then no plot and then probably beer. Oh, and a guy with a gun.**

**This author's note was brought to you by Hungry & Desperate to Finish this Fic.**


	14. Chapter 10

**A/N And finally, we present: the plot! Sadly, since all of the characters are split up right now, Molly can't narrate these events very convincingly. But she'll be back!**

**Warnings for gun violence, threatening behaviour, brief description of murder. For details, check the A/N at the end.**

_Now, kids, I wasn't present for most of these events. I can only tell you what I was told after the… uh… incident. You see, I had been blissfully oblivious to the progression of the case as I was having a nice, calm chat with your Uncle John. Well, until we were interrupted. But we'll get to that._

_First things first…_

Marshall looked at the row of colour-coded dumpsters and selected the paper recycling. As he lifted the lid, he was surprised to find a manila envelope stuck on the underside. It had a handwritten note on the top corner, saying: VITAL.

Marshall rolled his eyes. His experience as a lawyer told him that any 'vital' documents should never be thrown away like that. They had to be shredded first to protect confidential information. Whoever had chucked this in the recycling really screwed up – they even somehow got it stuck to the lid, instead of in the recycling itself! It was a good thing he was the one who'd found it, and not some identity thief or whatever.

He nodded to himself and pulled out the 'vital' papers, tucking them securely under his arm. There was a diamond-cut shredder back in the apartment, and he didn't mind playing the Good Samaritan here. It would only take a couple of minutes.

He threw away the magazines he'd brought with him, and tucked the envelope into the now-empty reusable bag. He would be sure to shred the papers soon, once he'd finished running a few other errands.

As he exited the alleyway, the lid of a dumpster slowly rose up like a shark's dorsal fin breaking the surface of the water. A pair of furious eyes watched the lawyer's retreating back, and a man climbed out of the dumpster with an irritated growl. The man had just had to dive into a half-full dumpster to avoid being seen by the oblivious lawyer. The experience had put him into a mood even fouler than the stench now emanating from his navy-blue suit.

With a curse, he checked his jacket for the weapon inside it. There was no knowing what the giant would do when he saw the envelope's contents, but he certainly wouldn't give it back unless the agent acted fast.

He stealthily pursued the larger man at a safe distance, waiting for an opportunity to get the envelope back.

xxx

_Kids, your father tells me that the first time he asked me out he didn't feel it went very smoothly. Well, I suppose from his point of view, it didn't._

Ted stared at the phone, working up the nerve to call Molly. It wouldn't have fazed him before he realised that he liked her, but now…

"Oh, what the hell." Ted muttered, hitting the dial button and immediately regretting it. Before he had chance to chicken out, a cheerful voice greeted him.

"Hello?"

"Uh, Molly, hi. It's Ted. You know. Ted with the dresses?" He winced. Smooth, Mosby. Real smooth!

"Oh, hey Ted. What's up?"

"The sky." Don't try to be a smartass, Ted. "Uh, nothing much, I mean. I was just, uh, well I wondered if maybe you wanted to go and get coffee with me sometime? Maybe now?"

"Oh, Ted, that sounds lovely but I can't right now – I'm having brunch with John. But maybe some other time?" Molly suggested. "I'll call you, okay?"

"Yeah, fine, that's fine…" Ted mumbled. At least she'd let him down easy.

"Okay, see you soon!" Molly chirped, then hung up on him. Ted stared at his phone for a moment, then decided that what he really needed right then was a drink. Or several drinks.

xxx

Marshall paused as he walked along, seeing an elderly lady trying to gauge a safe time to cross the busy street. He went up to her, like the true gentleman from Minnesota that he was, and offered her his arm to safely guide her over the road.

"Why thank you, young man!" She said.

"No problem, ma'am. My mother always taught us to respect our elders."

"Oh, how wonderful. It's so nice to know that some people still have manners. Kids these days…"

The man tailing Marshall watched him from across the road. Did he know this woman or something? Was she a contact who he was passing the envelope on to? …He was handing her something!

"…And this is my son, Marvin. We're going to raise him to be an upstanding citizen just like my dad would have wanted…"

"Oh, he's beautiful! You seem a very devoted father…"

No, actually, she'd given the slip of paper back. Whatever it was.

Marshall moved on, re-crossing the road, and the man continued following him in the hope that there would be no more unexpected detours.

xxx

Mycroft's assistant tapped impatiently at her Blackberry, checking for the GPS signal that would locate Sherlock's phone – Mycroft did worry so.

Apparently the younger Holmes was stuck in a traffic jam only a few streets away.

Well, dealing with a grouchy Sherlock was still better than sitting alone in this café and totally not thinking about that man-stealing mortician…

She strode out of the shop with the brisk pace she'd honed to perfection even in high heels. It wouldn't take her too long to get to Sherlock's cab, which was currently moving at the pace of a snail, if that.

xxx

The agent watched in disbelief as the man he was shadowing perched on tiptoe to stretch up and retrieve a small tortoiseshell kitten from the tree in which it was stuck.

The crying child on the ground looked up at his saviour, awestruck, as the tall man gently scooped the kitten into his hands and deposited her next to the boy.

"Gee, thanks, mister!"

"No problem, Billy, but next time try to keep her on the ground! Kittens shouldn't reach that height, you know."

Marshall strolled onwards. Behind him, an increasingly disgruntled agent followed on.

xxx

_Meanwhile, I had just come back from that conversation with your father._

"So what did Ted want?" John asked.

"To have coffee! With me!" I grinned.

"That's great, when are you going?" John smiled back. I think my good mood was contagious.

"Well, he wanted to have some just now, but I'm kind of busy with you, so I told him I'd call him later and we can reschedule." I said, sitting down at the table again.

"…Sorry, what? Did you actually say that?" John looked incredulous.

"I told him I was having brunch with you. Because I am." I said, somewhat defensively. I couldn't work out why John was looking at me like that, like he looked at Sherlock when the detective had said something really awkward.

"Molly. That was a bit…" John trailed off.

"What?"

"Don't you think that would've made him think we were…?" He looked really uncomfortable.

"We were wha– _Oh!_ Psh! What? No! _What_? No! Ted knows we're not – No!" I squeaked. John looked at me disparagingly.

"Ted knows you're my date to my cousin's wedding and that you turned him down to have brunch with me."

"Oh. Oh dear."

_It was not my most brilliant moment, kids._

xxx

"I'm so psyched about this wedding! We bought Marvin his first suit the other day! He has a tiny little bow tie, and…"

The agent peered round the end of the fruit aisle in the supermarket. Marshall was leaning against the wall, guarding his trolley, with his phone in one hand while he gestured wildly with the other.

It looked like half of the banana display next to him had somehow fallen into the trolley. What could one man possibly need so many bunches of bananas for?

He continued eavesdropping on the phone conversation. Perhaps it was a coded discussion on what to do with the papers…

"I know, man, I know! It's gonna be legen – wait for it – dary!"

The voice on the other line said something, but it was indistinct from this distance.

"No, what?"

Despite the distance, the sheer volume of the outburst from the other end made it audible to the stalker: "EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS WEDDING IS GONNA BE FREAKING AWESOME!"

"I know! It is!"

There was another, quieter comment from the phone. "We will! Yeah. See you there!"

xxx

There was a rap on the cab window. Sherlock turned to see Eve standing on the pavement, tapping her feet.

"Eve! Wonderful timing!" He said, opening the cab door. The driver glared at him and Sherlock held up his hands to placate him. "It's fine. She'll pay."

"Oh, will I?" Sherlock glowered at her.

"He wouldn't let me get out of the cab until I paid him, and I don't have enough American money. I didn't foresee how awful the traffic would be."

"Clearly not." Eve smirked and opened her purse to reveal an array of foreign currencies. She flicked through the notes until she reached the US dollars, then promptly paid the cab driver.

With that, Sherlock set off at a speedy walk. Eve, despite her expertise in walking in heels, found it a challenge to match his pace.

"Where are you going?"

"To interview a possible witness. Wendy Dearheart, waitress at MacLaren's and the victim's clandestine lover. Care to join me?"

"Where's John?"

"He's busy."

"So he just raised your hopes and left you hanging?"

"No, I sent him to the police."

"So he casually abandoned you for another detective?"

"I have no monopoly on John's time. Besides, he's still aiding my investigation. And I thought he might become distracted by the witness' emotional state. I have no patience for mollycoddling."

"Well, I'm sure he would leap at the chance to do plenty of _that_. No doubt he'd have gone after this Wendy character as well."

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, shooting his companion a sideways glance.

"Er, is something troubling you, Eve?"

She didn't meet his eyes, instead she pulled out her Blackberry and checked it.

Sherlock caught sight of the **New Message** sign, but he didn't see its contents. He did note, however, that she read it without tapping out a reply. This seemed significant in some way, but he wasn't sure how. The depths of the female psyche, when not linked to murder, were really more of John's division than Sherlock's.

xxx

Marshall stood stock-still, delighted by the scene before him. A crowd of seemingly unrelated people had broken into song and dance in the middle of an intersection. This may not have been the best choice of location, as the police had doubtless been summoned by the irate drivers who were unable to progress – however, the traffic jam also meant that cop cars were having trouble arriving, and probably wouldn't get there until the end of the performance anyway. The performers switched from _Call Me Maybe_ to _Thriller_. Marshall gave a squeak of delight and put down his bags of bananas and various other groceries.

His pursuer barely choked back his scream of rage upon discovering that the one bag still hooked on the lawyer's elbow was the one containing the envelope he needed. He could only stand in the crowd and watch, helpless, as Marshall joined in the flashmob's rendition of the Michael Jackson classic.

xxx

"She hasn't replied, Molly." John said forlornly as he stared at his phone. "It's been fifty seconds and she hasn't replied." He took a deep draught of his tea, wincing as it burned his tongue a little.

"Maybe she's writing a long reply!" I said with as much optimism as I could muster. I was on my fifth cup of tea, and still berating myself over my earlier blunder. I tried to distract myself by helping John with his love life, and advising him to text Louise/Anthea. That hadn't gone well either.

"All I said was 'Hey Anthea, want to go for a drink later?' – hardly cause for offence!"

Wow. If she didn't even reply to a yes/no question, maybe she wasn't interested after all…

"Oooh. Bit not good." I murmured.

"That was socially inappropriate? How?"

"What?" I was baffled.

"Uh, never mind. Sherlock thing." John shook his head with a wry smile.

"Sherlock would know what to do."

"About Anthea and Ted? No he wouldn't!"

"You're right! What hope is there for us?"

We both downed the rest of our tea and ordered some more from the concerned café staff.

xxx

Eriksen was now standing at the front of a crowd of small children and their parents watching a magic show. He had been excitedly waiting to be chosen to participate in the show, and was suitably distracted by the disappearing and reappearing plastic duck in front of him.

Seizing his chance, the agent squeezed through to the front of the spectators. He shoved children out of his way in as subtle a way as possible, to avoiding drawing attention to himself.

He managed to get behind his target, who was muttering about how much that damned baby of his would love this show. The agent reached out a hand towards the bag containing the envelope, confident that at last his hard work was going to pay off, when:

"You there! In the blue!" The magician cried, pointing with a flourish towards the agent. For a moment the stalker was sure he was done for. No magician could miss the feeble sleight of hand of a pickpocket. He would be arrested and the envelope would be lost to his employer, and then being in police custody would be the least of his worries.

"Come on up here! You look like the sort of fellow who knows how to find a lost duck!" The magician continued. The agent blinked in confusion, then hesitantly pointed at himself, looking for confirmation. Then soccer moms and vengeful children were shoving him forward and he was 'on stage' with no hope of escape until he had located a missing plastic duck.

Meanwhile, Marshall had given up on any chance of audience participation, and was now heading home to put the bananas in the cupboards and fetch Marvin.

Damn it.

xxx

Sherlock knocked sharply on the white wooden door. Eve smoothed her skirt as she waited for the answer. When the door opened an inch to reveal a round, pallid face, Sherlock addressed her.

"Ms. Dearheart? We're investigating the murder of Carl MacLaren and we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"But – but I just got home after being questioned by the cops!" She said with a quavering voice. Eve plastered a charming and sympathetic smile onto her face.

"We understand, but this will only take a moment. My name is Jane Doyle, and this is my colleague Sherrinford House. We're with Carl's insurance company. We're trying to determine the cause of his death. May we come in, please?" She said politely.

Wendy Dearheart sighed and opened the door to admit them. She looked awful, and was dressed in what amounted to pyjamas. Not that 'Jane' would ever consider wearing plaid cotton trousers and a spaghetti-strap top to bed.

"Okay, fine. But just five minutes. I've got a sitcom to watch."

"Of course, Ms. Dearheart. We understand you must be tired." 'Jane' said, following the smaller woman into the main room and sitting at the opposite end of the couch from her. "Firstly, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to harm Mr. MacLaren? Any enemies, ex-partners, perhaps someone odd came into the bar recently?"

"Erm, well, not that I know of… Sorry, _what_ is he doing?" Wendy asked looking worriedly over the other woman's shoulder. 'Jane' steeled herself, and turned to see Sherlock lying on the kitchen floor sniffing at the skirting board underneath the counters.

"Mr. House?" She said patiently. He ignored her and she gritted her teeth. "_Mr. House_!" He ignored her again, but did stand up and start rubbing the countertop. Eve resisted the temptation to slap some decorum into him, and turned back to the witness. "My colleague is very thorough. How would you describe your relationship to the victim?"

"We were…colleagues. Friends." Wendy said, looking 'Jane' in the eyes for the first time.

"More than friends, judging by the stack of romantic comedies, the half finished chocolates, the empty Ben and Jerry's tubs and the used Kleenex littering the livingroom." Sherlock interrupted, turning towards her so that his coat tails swished out dramatically. "It's far more likely that you suffered a recent break-up and are reacting in this clichéd manner. Clearly you didn't see the break-up coming, so it was sudden. Unexpected. You were close to Carl MacLaren, and he was recently murdered. Not a huge leap, Ms. Dearheart."

Wendy frowned at him, confused.

"What? No. Carl and I were never an item. My boyfriend broke up with me like a week before Carl died. I just haven't had a chance to clean up yet." She protested. Sherlock scowled at her.

"Please! Your kitchen is spotless. Bleached within an inch of its life. All the dishes are done and even the empty ice cream tubs have been washed out for the recycling. You've obviously had ample time and motivation to clean. You've clearly not been crying today, your eyes aren't in the slightest bit red." He turned away from her to examine the kitchen again. "But then, you haven't left the apartment either: the rubbish is still here, and you're in no way dressed to go outside. So why are you so keen on cleaning the kitchen but not the evidence of your heartbreak?"

Without any warning, he swept off into the bathroom, and Wendy turned back to 'Jane'.

"Who did you say you were with, again? I'm not sure I want him here, if he's going to make comments about my personal life."

"The real question, Ms. Dearheart," Sherlock interrupted, barging back in, "is: what do you feel so guilty about?"

"_G-guilty?_ That's it, get out!" Wendy demanded, standing and pointing to the exit.

"Yes, guilty. The kitchen is sparkling, and you've worn down the soap in the bathroom to the size of a thumbnail, thus you've had to open a new one. So your subconscious is desperately seeking an outlet for your nervous energy, and a way for you to start afresh. It would seem you're feeling guilty. Perhaps it's because you blame yourself for not being there when Carl died. Or perhaps you were there and could do nothing. Perhaps you know who did it, but feel incapable of reporting them… because of sentiment, most likely." Sherlock paused for dramatic effect. 'Jane' had to admit, his work was quite impressive in person – not at all like reading the reports or seeing CCTV footage. "So you see, Ms. Dearheart, there really is no point in trying to conceal the truth, or asking us to leave. The evidence is all there – "

"Okay!" Wendy cried, flopping back onto the couch, and burying her head in her hands. "Okay, you clearly know what's going on. Just…can I tell it from my perspective? Before this goes any further, I mean."

Sherlock nodded slightly and went to lean against the wall next to the bathroom door.

xxx

Marshall went back into the apartment building. Before the back door could click into place behind him, a hand caught it.

His stalker crept up the stairs a safe distance behind his quarry, careful not to make a sound as he went, grateful that he had managed to extricate himself from the magician's clutches. He had caught up with Marshall while the man was distracted by what he thought was a UFO sighting, but was in fact a hot air balloon. As the larger man returned home, his pursuer grabbed for the door before it could swing closed and then he walked into the unwitting thief's apartment.

The agent immediately had to duck into the kitchen to avoid being seen by the petite redhead who came out of one of the adjoining rooms, carrying the accursed child he had heard far too much about that day.

"Oh, Marshall! Thank God! Take Marvin, Ted's downstairs yelling for MacLaren's to open up and sell him some brandy!" She hurried out of the apartment, with no further explanation, shoving the baby at her husband.

Marshall cooed at his son, and deposited him into a pillow fort on the couch, thereby preventing him from falling off. The lawyer then reached into the bag dangling from his elbow and dumped the contents of the manila envelope onto his desk (inevitably, a few pages slid straight off onto the floor, as always happened when he tried to do such things). He was about to put the first bundle into the shredder when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Eriksen."

"Randy?" Marshall spun around to stare at his co-worker, whose usual aura of ineptitude had vanished, revealing a hard, cold, businesslike character. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for those papers." Randy said, slipping back into his usual hapless demeanour. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, moving out of the kitchen towards the couch. "I, uh, kinda forgot what I was carrying and instead of putting the outdated flyers for GNB's Super Saver Deal into the recycling, I ended up keeping them and nearly getting rid of the important documents I was taking to the boss. How about you just give those back to me, and we pretend I didn't nearly make a huge mistake? I'll buy you a round of drinks as a 'thank you'…"

Marshall looked at the smaller man, scrutinising him and his story. Randy was pretty useless, that much was true, and he'd been known to shred the wrong documents or bring irrelevant files to court. On the other hand, something was off. Why had he come all the way to Marshall's apartment building to dispose of the flyers when there were perfectly good recycling bins in every part of GNB? (Marshall should know – he'd organised the campaign for them.) And Randy following him up to his apartment was kind of creepy. Also, why had Randy not approached him from the outset? Had he been following Marshall the whole day? Not to mention the strange tone of voice Randy had taken to stop him from shredding the papers – something else was going on here.

His train of thought was interrupted by a waft of a truly awful smell. He was sure he had caught a whiff of that smell in the crowd at the magic show, but he had thought it was the children at the time.

"Ugh, God, where's that coming from?" Marshall muttered, wrinkling up his nose. "It smells disgusting!"

"Ahaha, sorry Mr. Eriksen, that'd be me. I took a bit of a tumble by the dumpsters outside…"

"O-oh. Okay…" Marshall said, his thoughts racing. That was _definitely_ suspicious. For one thing, it was now apparent that Randy had been following him around. For another, who spends enough time hanging around back alleys to pick up that much of a stink? A quick fall next to the trash wouldn't have left such a strong smell. There was no way that this was just another example of Randy's general uselessness. Something was up.

"So, uh, the papers, can I have them back?"

"Sure," Marshall said, but made no move to gather them up. "What did you say they were for again?"

"Uh, I didn't, actually. They're classified. You know." Randy looked decidedly uncomfortable, like a witness when Marshall was onto a weak point in their testimony. The lawyer seized his chance.

"Oh really? No offence, pal, but I wouldn't have thought you'd be trusted with any confidential papers after that mishap with the –"

"Jeesh, Eriksen, that was months ago! Just give me the damn papers back and I'll get outta your hair, alright?" Randy seemed unusually vexed by the whole situation. In the whole time they'd worked together, Marshall had never seen him this close to freaking out.

"These papers aren't from GNB, are they…?" Marshall murmured, pulling the top ones over to examine them. There was something about shipping to Shanghai, but before he could read more he was paralysed by the sound of a gun's safety catch being clicked off.

"Nope. Now why don't you do yourself a favour and just put the papers back in the envelope?" Randy said, in a perfectly composed and rather ominous manner. There was no trace of the bumbling fool that Marshall thought he knew. Instead there was a man with a dark smile playing about his lips and a mistrustful gleam in his eyes. He held a pistol with a silencer attached, and was pointing it straight at Marshall's chest.

Marshall did what any adopted New Yorker would do in such a situation: he prepared to hand over the goods, pray for his life and try to think of an escape plan. Solving the mystery could wait until his life wasn't threatened. He could tell the cops about Randy later.

"Alright, just a moment…" Marshall said, slowly gathering the sheets on his desk and shuffling them into a neater pile. He scanned them as fast as he could while he did so; catching occasional words that meant nothing to him, and spotting photos of a few women he'd seen Ted fail to hit on. (This just kept getting weirder. Why did Randy want photos of them?) He put the papers back into the manila envelope and looked over at Randy, who was now perfectly composed and had slightly lowered his gun.

"That's it. No need to make life difficult. Just slide it over to me…" Randy said.

"I'm…not sure if I should give these to you, Randy…" Marshall murmured. Randy let out an enraged growl, rolling his eyes. Then, before Marshall could react, Randy had scooped up Marvin from the pillow fort.

"I _really_ think you should just give me those papers, Eriksen." He said, coldly.

xxx

Wendy Dearheart sat with her hands folded on her lap, avoiding the detective's gaze.

"It started a few months ago. I noticed that some of the customers were staying late – later than me – it was just them and Carl! And that whenever they did, they wouldn't come back. At first I thought Carl was sleeping them, and so if they'd come back to the bar it would've made things awkward, but then there were some guys that stayed late too, and Carl doesn't…didn't swing that way. So I started looking into it. I never found any proof or anything, but Carl was definitely involved in some kind of shady gang. Then the other week, not long before my boyfriend broke up with me, Carl got this postcard. I have it somewhere…"

She stood and rummaged in a drawer for a moment, before handing Sherlock a postcard in a see-through plastic sandwich bag. He turned it over and read out the message.

"'Daddy's had enough now – you're in big trouble, mister! Hugs & kisses, M…' Any ideas on who sent it?"

"Um… No. Sorry. There was a guy who was hanging around the bar lately, Carl got really jumpy whenever he was around, but I don't know if he was part of the gang." Wendy shrugged. "I tried to get Carl to talk about him, but he just clammed up…"

"Ah."

"So I just swiped the postcard the other day when Carl was hungover. I put it in a bag in case it had fingerprints on it or anything, but I didn't have enough to report anything to the cops, so I just kept it here."

"I see."

"And then, he acted kinda weird…"

"How so?"

"He offered to buy me dinner. Just take-out, nothing fancy. I tried to refuse but he insisted, saying he wanted to 'redeem his gender' after my boyfriend broke up with me… Which was weird, 'cause he'd never taken an interest in my love life before. But still, it was nice of him."

"Did he make a move on you?" 'Jane' asked.

"What? No! We weren't…"

"But he _did _treat you to dinner when he learned that you were newly single." Sherlock commented, raising an eyebrow. Surely he couldn't be misinterpreting that? "Please don't try to conceal things, Ms. Dearheart. There really is no point in secrecy."

"I… No, he didn't! Make a move on me, that is. I mean… not that kind of move. He…" She swallowed nervously, licked her lips and took a deep breath. "He came at me. With a knife. And I'd been taking self-defence classes, because I don't live in a great neighbourhood, you see? And I just sort of… acted on instinct. And the next thing I know, there's a bread-knife in him, and he's sort of… gaping at me… and he's bleeding everywhere, and I was going to call an ambulance but I realised how it looked, and he'd already stopped breathing… So I just stashed his body in the closet, pulled out the knife and washed it up in the kitchen out back while I tried to figure out what to do. You have to understand; I'm scared that the gang might come after me for killing one of their members. I thought maybe if it was left a mystery I would be safe… That's why I didn't come forward… But I swear, Mr. House, it was in self-defence! I liked Carl, I didn't want to kill him… But I guess he didn't feel the same."

There was a stunned silence after her confession. Then Sherlock gave an exclamation as the pieces fitted into place and Wendy turned to look at him.

"The killer didn't threaten you. You _are_ the killer! It's the classic sign, trying to wash the blood off your hands. The cleaning. The soap. The refusal to leave the safety of your home. When you add in the gang it all makes perfect sense. Those people who were staying late with Carl: maybe they weren't all gang members, but they could have been associates or collaborators. Drug dealers or smugglers, perhaps? Moving goods using MacLaren's as a front." He groaned. "I never should have tried to theorize without adequate data. It was a capital mistake. It biased my judgement."

Wendy, who had started crying, sniffled.

"You're not from the insurance company, are you? You're too clever. You know all those things, without even trying." Sherlock said nothing but he did turn back around to look at her. "Are you with the cops, Mr. House?"

"I'm a freelancer." Sherlock replied.

"Am I going to prison?" The distressed waitress asked quietly.

"Not at the moment. We need to gather more evidence. Figure out why Carl attacked you and what kind of business is going on at MacLaren's. I recommend that you give yourself up to the police now, as that will make you more sympathetic to a jury when all this comes to court, and will give you extra protection in the mean time." Sherlock said plainly.

"Papers." 'Jane' said suddenly. Up until this point she had been silent, absorbing Wendy's story. Now she grabbed the other woman by her shoulders and shook her a little. "Did you ever see Carl with any papers? He would have left them in an easily accessible public area with low security. Did you see them? Did you _find any_?"

"What? No, I…I don't know what you're talking about, Ms. Doyle."

"Jane…?" Sherlock murmured.

"There was a case I was meant to look into. While I was here. But my rendezvous fell through because of the murder. I'm starting to think it was Carl I was meant to be meeting…"

"And these papers, are they something to do with the gang Ms. Dearheart mentioned?"

"The recycling bins!" Wendy cried. The Brits turned to look at her. "I saw this guy hanging out by the recycling bins once. It was weird because he was reading a file. Seemed like a strange place for it."

"Where are these recycling bins?" 'Jane' demanded.

"They're just round the back of the bar. We only really put them in because Marshall…Mr. Eriksen…one of our regulars, asked us to. He's an environmental lawyer, so he's really into this stuff…"

'Jane' sprang to her feet, turned and ran to the door. Sherlock ran down the stairs after her.

"What's happening? Eve! Tell me what's going on!"

"Get Mycroft!" She shouted over her shoulder as she hailed a cab. Sherlock was jerked backwards as Wendy grabbed the back of his coat.

"Wait, please Mr. House! Don't leave me! I'm so scared!" She wailed.

"Go turn yourself in to the police!" Sherlock snapped. When he turned back to the road, Eve and her cab were already gone.

xxx

Marshall froze for a moment, then slid the papers across the floor to Randy. As the agent took his eyes off Marshall, bending down and shifting his grip on Marvin to pick up the papers, the lawyer leapt into action.

With a bellow of incoherent paternal rage, he threw himself at the agent. His only thought was for his son's safety. His mind was a blank… Normally it would have advised against rushing an armed man. But _this_ armed man had Marvin.

The door swung open behind Randy just as he took aim. He turned to see Lily in the doorway, but his finger was already tightening around the trigger. Somewhere in the apartment building, a door slammed closed and there was the sound of running footsteps.

There was a muffled gunshot, and Marshall cried out in pain. Marvin wailed and began to sob.

Lily took in the scene with wide eyes: she saw her baby in Randy's grip, saw her husband collapsed on the floor, and stared at the gunman in outraged despair.

Randy, seeing that Marvin was the only thing preventing Lily from doing anything untoward, adjusted his arm to hold the infant more securely while retaining his grip on the envelope.

"Alright, that's enough. You're going to let me walk out of here right now, aren't you? Wouldn't want anything bad to happen, after all. Wouldn't want me to lose my grip…" He sneered. Lily, horrified, held up her hands and backed away out into the corridor outside. Randy followed, gun pointed straight at her. "That's it. Nice and easy."

Facing Lily, he had his back to the stairs. That was why he only had time to register her change of expression before something hard bounced off the back of his head.

He spun around to see an enraged brunette, who flung a high-heeled shoe straight at his face. He ducked out of the way instinctively, his head turned to the side, and Lily made a grab for the gun, wrenching it out of his hand from behind.

Unfortunately, it is not in the job description of a kindergarten teacher or an artist to know how to wield a gun.

Even if Lily had known what to do with it, she wouldn't have fired anyway, as Randy had pulled out a knife from somewhere and had it pressed to Marvin. The baby did not understand what was happening, but everything was loud, and the man was holding him too tight, and there was something cold and sharp against his skin. His sobs increased in volume and intensity.

"Enough!" Randy hissed, while the two women stood by, helpless to save the infant. "I'm getting out of here, and you're not gonna stop me." They reluctantly shuffled a safe distance away from him, and he began to walk down the stairs, sideways so that they wouldn't try anything.

Once he was out of their line of sight, he broke into a sprint and left the building. There was the distant sound of a car door slamming outside, followed by screeching tyres.

Lily looked at her baby's would-be saviour. Lily didn't know her name, but since she had just tried to stop Randy, Lily was inclined to trust her.

"I'm so sorry. I was too late, I couldn't stop him…" Said the woman in an English accent. Lily felt her eyes fill with tears. That had actually just happened. Like, all of it.

"Oh God…" Lily sobbed. "He shot Marshall, he kidnapped Marvin… What am I going to do?"

"Someone was shot?" The brunette exclaimed, rushing past Lily and entering the apartment to see Marshall lying near the sofa with blood soaking his shirt.

This was not good at all.

**A/N And there you have it. Plot and even a cliffhanger, as this chapter is too long already. We hope you enjoyed it! Why not let us know what you think of these developments? **

**Warnings: a man stalks, threatens, and shoots Marshall. He also threatens Marvin with both a gun and a knife and general injury before kidnapping him to prevent Lily from stopping his escape. (Marvin is unharmed ****– we're not writing it that dark!) The description of Carl's death is not gory, it merely specifies the type of knife and shows the killer's 'motivations'. If you're still worried, just stop after the magician: everything up to and including that is just social stuff and silliness. (If you don't count the worst attempt at shadowing a guy ever as bad. We tried to make that bit light-hearted.)**


	15. Chapter 11

HIMYM 11

**A/N So, looking through our notes for this chapter we realised a few things. First, we're probably insane. Second, Legendberry's handwriting can be really hard to decipher. Third… we don't even **_**understand**_** our notes for this chapter. Enjoy!**

_Kids, your Uncle Marshall had been shot. His son had been kidnapped. His wife was in hysterics._

_Fortunately, Fate decided that she'd given him enough of a kicking that day, and sent Louise to help out._

With one hand on her Blackberry, dialling 911, Mycroft's assistant used her free hand to press a cushion to the injured man's torso. He groaned with pain, but soon enough he'd lost consciousness and she didn't feel guilty about applying pressure to the wound.

Lily, meanwhile, was crying. Quite loudly.

"Shut the hell up, you stupid cow! Help me with this!" The brunette snapped.

The redhead was so shocked by this impolite outburst in a posh English accent that she actually stopped crying. In a moment, she was holding the cushion more firmly against her husband's chest while the brunette gave the emergency services their location.

"Thank you… I don't even know your name…" Lily murmured when the other woman had finished her conversation.

"It's Willow. I'm a friend of John Watson's, I believe you know each oth– John!" She exclaimed, quickly tapping at her Blackberry. "Why didn't I think of it before? He's a _doctor! _…John. Come to the apartment above MacLaren's. A man has been shot, ambulance is on its way but you could make a difference in the next few minutes." She hung up. "He'll be here soon. What's your name, by the way?"

"Lily. Lily Aldrin. This is my husband Marshall." Said the American, nodding towards the man on the floor. "Our son, Marvin, was the one that you tried to rescue…"

"I will rescue him if I can, Ms. Aldrin. In the meantime, perhaps you should refrain from mentioning his disappearance to the police."

"But – !"

"I know these people, Ms. Aldrin. They're very dangerous. Please let me find your son _without_ alerting the organisation to what we are doing. Going to the police is a sure-fire way to do just that. It might even make the situation worse."

"But I can't just do nothing! I have to tell the cops! They're here to protect us from people like him… Please, Willow, you have to understand. Marvin's my son. I need to get him back as quickly as I can. I've only just met you, and you expect me to just let you take care of it? I don't even know your last name. And the cops have more authority than we do, they'll be able to do more."

"I happen to occupy a minor position in the British government, Ms. Aldrin. I am confident in my ability to deal with this situation. And unlike the police, I am… discreet. If I don't recover your son within the next twenty-four hours, you may alert whoever you wish to the situation. But please, let me try and do this without alerting the organisation and putting your son in further danger."

Lily looked down at Marshall and the blood that was seeping through the cushion. His face was slack, like he was just dozing rather than…

"…Alright. Twenty-four hours, then."

_Kids, your Uncle John and I had only been a little way down the street. We had started to sprint to the apartment the moment Louise had told John about the shooting, and we burst into the room expecting the worst._

_I was already figuring out how best to break the 'time of death' speech. Fortunately, this one was more in John's department: the man was still dying, therefore still alive. For the moment._

_The man, we quickly saw, was also your Uncle Marshall._

"M-Marshall?" I squeaked. John knelt down beside Lily, so I knelt on the opposite side next to Louise, who glared at me as I did so. I put it down to the stress of the situation.

"Bullet wound to the right shoulder, it doesn't seem to have hit any arteries, but there's no exit wound… he'll need surgery to get the bullet removed, but we can try and limit the blood loss… Molly, can you go and fetch me some bandages? Lily, you do have a first aid kit, right?" John said, checking Marshall's torso for evidence of further injuries.

"It's under the kitchen sink." Lily said. I got up and rushed to fetch it, quickly bringing it back to John and passing him the gauze and bandages. We quickly dressed the wound, discarding the blood-soaked cushion when we were done.

"He's still breathing, at least. When did he pass out?" John said, using his hand to maintain pressure on the bulk of wrapping on the wound.

"A minute or so before I called you." Louise said.

"Right. We just need to keep him going until the ambulance arrives – you did send for one, right?"

"Of course."

"Good." John turned his head to examine Lily, who was now sitting on the floor beside him staring at the blood-stained cushion. "Lily? How're you holding up?"

"My husband just got shot. My hands are covered in his blood. I'm fine. Just fine…" She said blankly. It was probably for the best that she was too much in shock to get distressed just then.

Thankfully, it wasn't long before the room was swarming with paramedics and Marshall was being taken downstairs to an ambulance on a stretcher while the young paramedic with the long curly hair helped Lily to follow him, having draped a shock blanket around the redhead's shoulders.

"Wait, Donov– ah, I mean ma'am." John called, jogging after the two women. They stopped and turned to him at the top of the stairs. "Where's the baby?" He asked Lily, who stood gaping at him like a fish.

"I – uh, Willow…"

"It's fine, John." Louise said, appearing at his shoulder. "Lily told me he was with his Grandpa earlier. Let her go downstairs." As the paramedic and the shaking mother left, Louise murmured to John. "I've got it covered."

xxx

_Kids, I won't describe that journey to the hospital in detail. It was tough on all of us. Marshall faded in and out of consciousness while Lily watched the paramedics fight to keep him alive. _

_John, Louise and I shared a cab, which would normally have been fine, but at this point it was just incredibly tense. At the time I thought it was because of the situation with Marshall, but later I learnt that Louise had formed a grudge against me (and to a lesser extent, John) for The Brunch._

When we got there we discovered that one of the paramedics had called Ted, as he was Marshall's emergency contact. Ted had come straight from the bar he'd been at, somewhat sobered up by the news, though he was still swaying slightly as he stood next to Lily in the waiting room.

At the time, I thought it was shock.

_Kids, I used to be much more naïve than I am now. I even disregarded the faint scent of apple martini coming from a half-dried stain on his shirt… In hindsight, maybe that was a result of him hitting on somebody? Though your father does enjoy an apple martini on occasion…_

_Anyway, I'm getting off-topic._

"Marshall's in surgery." Lily mumbled. Someone had given her access to a sink, and she had washed her hands of the blood, but she was still rubbing them as though she could feel it lingering there.

"Lily, what happened?" Ted asked, putting his arm around her shoulders. She sniffled and glanced at Louise.

"Well, I…" Lily began, but John was having none of it.

"No, wait," He said firmly. He dragged her into a secluded corner of the waiting room, with the rest of us following behind. "You need to tell me what's going on right now. No looking to _her_ for lies, no half-truths. I need to know. Tell me the truth, Lily. What happened?"

Lily took a deep shuddering breath and looked at Louise again. Louise pursed her lips and gave the barest of nods. This was apparently enough, and Lily's story burst out of her in a hushed tone.

"He kidnapped Marvin!" She hissed. "Marshall came home after running a few errands, and probably getting distracted like always, and I went downstairs to get Ted a cab, and when I came back upstairs there was this guy – who I'm_ sure_ I've seen somewhere before – and he had Marvin and some folder or something and a _gun_ pointed at Marshall! Then Marshall rushed him, and the guy _shot Marshall_, then he threatened to _drop Marvin_ unless I backed up and let him go, so I did, and then your friend Willow – " _I was going to interrupt at this point, asking who Willow was, but John shushed me and nodded towards Louise_ " – came in and threw her shoes at him, and I managed to get the gun away from him, but he had this _massive knife_ as well!" She gulped. "So we had to let him go, and he _took Marvin with him!_"

_As we tried to process her rushed speech _–_ some of the more sober members of the group finding it easier than others _–_ John's phone buzzed._

**Went to MacLaren's, Man's been shot. Think it may be –**

_No wait, this would make more sense if I tell you what Sherlock had been doing first. Let's rewind._

xxx

Sherlock finally managed to dislodge Wendy from his arm, and his coat sleeve, and his coat tails. She had retreated back into her apartment rather than chase him out of the building. He got the impression she would not be turning herself into the police anytime soon, but that was not relevant to his case. He knew she was the killer, now he needed to chase down Eve. This had Mycroft's name all over it.

He hailed a cab quickly and fired off a few texts. One to Eve and one to Mycroft.

**What are the papers about? Have you found them? How is Marshall Eriksen involved? -SH**

**Case progressing rapidly. Need more data. Eve uncooperative. Send information on her assignment, it's all linked. -SH**

He then waited as patiently as he could for the inevitable phone call. Why couldn't Mycroft just text like a normal person? At least Eve should reply quickl-

His phone buzzed as it received Eve's text.

**Classified. Busy. Unclear. Mind your own business.**

Sherlock scowled. Stubborn woman. He wished Mycroft had never hired her! …No, wait. Without her, surely Mycroft would be even more intolerable. Speaking of which, his phone was ringing with the James Bond theme tune reserved for when his brother called him.

"Mycroft! Excellent! Tell me about–" Sherlock began, determined to get this phone call over with as soon as possible.

"Mr. Holmes is indisposed. He has left instructions that, should you try to contact him, this message should be relayed to you: 'Don't bust your brain trying to puzzle this one out, brother dear. You're supposed to be the expert, after all.' Good day, Mr. Holmes." The unrecognisable voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the dial tone, and an outraged detective on the other end.

He grimaced. Admittedly, the call had ended rather sooner than he'd hoped, but one thing was clear. Mycroft, while he was a smug git, never wasted his younger brother's time. If he was 'indisposed', something serious was going on. He'd left Sherlock a message, and – no matter how irritating and brief it was – that meant he anticipated that the detective would call. That meant he knew something about Eve's case was not going smoothly. That meant that he needed Sherlock's help, but he couldn't ask him outright which meant –

"Oh!"

A coded message. How very like his brother, cramming all that information into a mere twenty words. Fortunately, while the two brothers had their differences, they were fully aware of one another's intellect and planned for it accordingly. Mycroft had doubtless provided him with the equipment to figure out this code already; all Sherlock had to do was figure out what the means were.

He leant back to sift through the data in his head, but was interrupted by the cab turning a corner and pulling to a halt behind an array of police cars. A sense of foreboding seized him, and he flung his recently 'acquired' American money at the driver – good thing Eve hadn't noticed him pinch her wallet – before rushing towards the building. He was stopped by two policemen.

"Whaddaya think you're doin', pal?" One of them said, glowering at him. "Nobody's allowed in here."

One look at their expressions made Sherlock doubt that they'd let him in, consulting detective or otherwise. This was the territorial kind of officer, so to get past, he'd have to act like this was his territory too.

Oh, good grief, that meant he'd have to put on the bloody accent, didn't it…?

"Oh yeah? Well I live here, 'pal', so you gonna tell me what's goin' on or what?" Sherlock said with belligerence and a fairly credible American accent. "What's up with all the cop cars? Someone under arrest for that Carl guy's murder?"

"We wish." Muttered the other cop, who until then had stayed silent. "No such luck: they found another guy near-dead, he'd been shot. Forensics are checking the place, including the corridors and stairs."

Sherlock's blood ran cold. Surely John wasn't – ?

It was unthinkable.

But what if – ?

"Yeah, his wife called an ambulance." Chimed in the first officer, probably in response to Sherlock's sudden loss of colour.

…His _wife?_

"Thank God." Sherlock muttered, nearly dropping his fake American accent. John wasn't the victim. It was somebody else. Whoever the victim was, the shooter wouldn't get away with it… If only Sherlock could get to the crime scene. "Any idea what happened?"

"Not yet, no witnesses, nobody even heard the gun." The second officer said.

"Shut it, that's none of his business." Uh-oh. Territorial Cop was getting annoyed. Time to back away and figure out a plan.

"Yeah, you're right," Sherlock conceded. "It ain't anything to do with me. But you mind tellin' me which of my neighbours it was?"

"Mr. Eriksen."

"Marshall?" Sherlock said, baffled. "…The lawyer? From upstairs?" Add in a bit of detail, make them _believe_ your story… The deceit was so familiar to him by now that he didn't even blink.

"Yeah, that's him. Forensics should be done with the common areas in about half an hour, but till then you can't come in."

"Okay, I'll come back later." Sherlock said, his mind racing to figure out why anyone would want to shoot _Marshall_ of all people. Perhaps he really had become entangled in Eve's case. "Thanks fellas." Oops. Possibly overdoing the fake accent. Time for a swift exit…

Sherlock strode down the street in an attempt to give the impression that he knew where he was going. Thankfully he soon came across a diner and sauntered into it. (Checked tiles on the floor, aroma of good coffee, weak tea and some form of unhealthy breakfast food, possibly pancakes. Or maybe waffles. Five food hygiene certificates behind the counter.) It seemed like a decent place to regroup. He took a seat and ordered a cup of coffee. Time to check in with John…

**Went to MacLaren's, man's been shot. Think it may be wise to investigate, but cops preventing access. Thoughts? -SH**

He sent the text.

Then he thought about it some more. He had a nagging feeling he was forgetting something.

Ah.

**Victim is one of your cousin's friends. I imagine you may have other concerns. Will begin by investigating the recycling bins outside as Eve mentioned them earlier. Come when convenient. -SH**

Sherlock smiled with self-satisfaction. That was definitely more considerate, and less 'not good' than the previous text. John would be pleased. Sherlock's phone buzzed.

**Right. You could ask Andrews to give you access. Marshall's in surgery. I'm at the hospital with the others, but I'll be back soon. Don't do anything stupid. -JW**

**At least, not until I get there. -JW**

Sherlock smirked. John knew him too well.

He quickly typed a message to the New York policeman.

**I need access to the building, starting with the recycling bins out back. Please distract or relocate your colleagues outside so I can get past and into the alleyway unchallenged. Found your main suspect for MacLaren's death, turns out the victim associated with suspected gang members. Looking for further evidence. -SH**

_And kids, that text would lead to the downfall of the detective's career._

_But we'll get to that later. For now, all you need to know is that Andrews did what your Uncle Shock asked and got him access to the back alley._

xxx

_Meanwhile, at your Uncle Barney's apartment, Robin was trying to come to terms with her feelings about her fiancé's occupation._

"I just can't understand why you lied to me all this time. We've been friends for _years_, Barney." Robin said, pleadingly. She was sitting opposite him at his clean, metal dinner table. She hadn't let him say anything yet, opting to vent her feelings before he could interrupt and try to spin the story in his favour. "Even if I wasn't your girlfriend – _your fiancée _– you should have told me!"

"I – " Barney paused. He wasn't sure if he was allowed to say anything yet. When she looked at him expectantly, he assumed it was his turn to talk. "I just…didn't want you to leave me." He murmured. Robin buried her head in her hands and groaned.

"This is the problem, Barney. You clearly know that it was something that would upset me. That it would affect our relationship." She didn't raise her head to look at him.

"Well I was right, wasn't I?" Barney protested. "I mean you're not going to… You can't… There's no way that you would marry a… someone like me."

Robin raised her head to look at him, but kept silent. The look of despair and resignation on her face made Barney lean forward and begin to babble.

"I never even thought that we would get together in the first place, because, I mean, you're _you_! You're so intelligent, and witty, and incredible, and you had a minor pop career in nineties Canada, and you're just brilliant and beautiful and _awesome_ and I – " Here he had to pause for breath, but he ploughed ahead before Robin could say anything in return. "So I never thought that it would be an issue because I never thought we would last this long. I didn't want to tell you or the others because you would all just try and talk me out of it. I've been…in this line of work so long that I couldn't imagine leaving it behind. "

"So you kept doing it _just _because you couldn't think of anything else to do?" Robin hissed. "You should have told me. This doesn't just affect _you_, Barney! I mean, did you even think about the consequences it'd have for m–" She stopped abruptly, her lips drawing a slim line across her face.

"For who?" Barney prompted her. When she didn't reply, he repeated the question louder. "It isn't like my sex life affected anyone but me. I mean before you, of course. But there really isn't anything that I could have _done _to you, Robin."

Robin continued looking at him silently, as tears started to fill her eyes.

"You moron. You've already done more than enough." She whispered. He reeled back, shocked.

"Wh- Robin, there isn't something that I've done _besides_ this, is there? Is… _is_ there a way this has affected you?" Barney asked.

Robin didn't reply. She wiped the tears off her cheeks and sniffed a couple of times to clear her thoughts.

"Barney, I can't… Um… Well, Ican'thavechildren." She blurted it out in a rush, desperate to get the secret out before she could change her mind. "Ever. And I think… I think it's because of you. I think you must've caught something and passed it on to me, and now… Here we are."

Barney gaped at her for a few moments, overwhelmed by guilt and unable to come up with a response. He drew a breath to say something, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by his cell phone ringing.

"I, uh, I'll just leave that." Barney said, hitting the 'reject' button.

The phone rang again, and Robin's rang at the same time.

"Mine's Ted." Barney said.

"Mine's Lily." Robin replied. "I wonder what's up. Maybe we should take the calls…"

_And kids, that was when your Uncle Barney and Aunt Robin heard the awful news. _

"Marshall's been shot!"

_The troubled couple looked into one another's eyes across the table and formed a silent agreement. They both understood that, despite what they were going through, their friends needed them. And for now, Robin and Barney would put aside their issues and deal with the situation as best they could… together._

xxx

**Bear with me. A man's been shot, security's not going to drop because I say so. -NA**

Suddenly, as he was finishing his coffee, it hit Sherlock like a runaway train. 'Don't bust your brain trying to puzzle this one out, brother dear. You're supposed to be the expert, after all.' Mycroft would not phrase something so informally unless it was essential. He was making a deliberate reference. _Brain-buster puzzles: expert difficulty._ Mycroft had given him a book at the airport. Doubtless it contained vital information for just such a moment.

He set off at once for Robin's apartment. There was information waiting for him.

_Kids, to cut a long story short _–_ or rather, to trim a fraction of its length _–_ I won't go into details about the whole thing. But the information your Uncle Shock managed to work out from the puzzle book was this:_

MORIARTY LOOKING TO EXPAND EMPIRE. AMERICA NEXT. MACLAREN MINE. CURRENTLY ON HUMAN TRAFFICKING. CONTACT IF TROUBLE OCCURS. WORKS IN EPONYMOUS BAR. MENTION BERWICK UPON TWEED. MORIARTY MAY SUSPECT HIM. A IS TO WARN MACLAREN ABOUT EXCESS SABOTAGE. HAS LOST TOO MUCH CARGO. M

"_I read on Uncle John's blog how Uncle Shock figured this out if you're interested, kids…"_

"_Interested? Of course we are! Tell us how he did it, Mum!" Leia cried._

"_No! No! Tell us about Uncle Marshall! We'll never get finished at this rate!" Luke argued._

_Both the kids were on the edge of their seats. I paused to appreciate how engaged they were with the story. It was unlikely I would be able to captivate their attention like this again for quite some time._

"_Okay, I'll just mention it quickly." I said, to cut off the argument before it really got going. "Uncle Shock's big brother had written all of the two-hundred-and-thirty puzzles in the little book on his own. Each one either had a solution that was a number from one to twenty-six, or it was unsolvable. Uncle Shock solved them all _–_ in about half an hour _–_ and recorded all the numbers. On noticing they went no higher than twenty-six, he immediately thought of the alphabet. That only left the unsolvable ones, which he took to mean sentence breaks."_

"_But what does it mean by 'A is to warn MacLaren?" Leia asked anxiously._

"_Ah, well, you may have noticed that the lady I call 'Louise' has quite a few names. Her boss, Uncle Shock's brother, called her 'A' for 'Assistant'. Creative, I know."_

"_So Carl _was_ Auntie's rendez-vous!" Luke exclaimed._

"_Yes he was. And kids, your Uncle Shock may not show it, but he has a great deal of respect for his brother. He also has a good sense of when to take his wishes seriously. This was one of those times."_

xxx

_Anyway, like I said, your father had come straight from a bar to the hospital, and he was still a little tipsy. But he really wanted to be there for his friends, and being quite drunk wasn't going to stop him._

Ted was sitting in one of the bright orange plastic chairs and tried not to sway. Barney and Robin had turned up a couple of minutes ago and were murmuring to John and Lily a few chairs over. He couldn't really make out the words, and he really hoped that was because they were too far away and not because he couldn't concentrate. The world was still a little blurry around the edges and he couldn't stop blinking no matter how hard he tried. He gritted his teeth and tried to make himself sober by will power alone.

_It didn't work._

'What sort of person goes out drinking while their best friend's being shot?' He thought. 'I must be the worst friend ever.'

I had just been to get coffee for everyone, and Ted was the last person I had to drop it off to. I really wanted to talk to him anyway – not about the date he tried to ask me on or anything, since that would have been so insensitive with what the Eriksens were going through right now… I just wanted to talk to him.

I think he noticed me as I approached, but only because I made sure to announce my presence by banging into a couple of things on my way over. He blinked up at me with tired, red-rimmed eyes. I wasn't sure when he had been crying, but then I had just been away for coffee. (_So naïve, kids._)

"Hey." I said, handing him the thick, foul-smelling coffee "I hope it's okay. I mean, it smells okay, but it has this weird sort of gloopy stuff on the top…"

"Thanks, Molly." He said, his voice rough and croaking as though he had been wailing loudly. (_So. Naïve._) "I'm sure it's just what I need right now."

"Oh, right." I said awkwardly, sitting down next to him. "Best friend being shot and all that."

We both managed a small breathy laugh, and then each took a sip of our incredibly bitter coffee. Our conversation withered and died there, while the others made plans to try and go help Sherlock with whatever he was doing.

I have to say it was nice just sitting next to your father and enjoying the little bubble of peace we had made for ourselves. I don't know if your father felt that as well, but it certainly seemed that way to me.

Eventually our little bubble had to pop though, and when it did, it was because Barney didn't want to leave Robin, and someone needed to stay with Lily at the hospital.

"We can't just make her stay here on her own, Barney!" Robin argued.

"But what about _you_?" Barney countered.

"What _about_ me?" Robin snapped. "I've _literally_ wrestled bears, stabbed a man with a _shoe_ – a _flat shoe_ – and I can shoot the 'o' out of a Coke can at five hundred yards!"

"Yeah… but… You're my fiancée…" He murmured, as though he wasn't quite sure if this was the case or not. Before Robin could ease his mind, Ted spoke up.

"I can stay here with Lily." He offered, tilting to the side as he stood up. I stood with him and steadied his elbow.

"Are you sure, Ted?" Robin asked, dubiously.

"Sure! I'm not going to be any use doing anything that doesn't involve sitting still, anyway." He pointed out.

"And I can stay with him!" I spoke up. Everyone turned their attention to me.

"Really, Molly?" John asked. "I thought you would have wanted to come along and help with the investigation?"

"No thanks." I said, using my most optimistic tone. "I think I've probably had enough excitement for today. Besides, I _do _work in a hospital, so I could help Lily decipher doctor-speak!"

That seemed to be a good enough solution, and so the others left your father, Lily and I waiting for Marshall to get out of surgery.

It was a long wait.

xxx

_Meanwhile, across the city…_

"So let me get this straight," The woman in the expensive black suit leaned back against the mahogany desk, staring down the sweating underling in front of her. "You were sent to retrieve papers that you _foolishly mislaid_. When a civilian – who knew your cover identity – picked up these papers, you followed him around as he performed an increasingly bizarre and juvenile set of 'errands'–"

"Bizarre and juvenile doesn't even cover it." Randy muttered sullenly, glowering at the desk behind the woman to avoid her gaze.

"_I'm talking!_" She hissed. Randy winced and nodded mutely. "So, after the _fiasco_ of your following this man instead of demanding he hand them over initially, you pursued him into _his own home_, _shot him_ and _kidnapped his son_. Could this have been any more of a disaster?"

"Well…" Randy began, nervously.

"_Shut up, Randy!_" She screamed. "The basta–" _baseball player! She said baseball player, kids!_ "– isn't even _dead!_ You couldn't even get rid of your damn witness!"

Randy made to say something else, but she cut him off with a violent swipe of her hand.

"No! What the hell are we going to do with _that_, Randy?" She gestured to the infant whose leg was handcuffed to the radiator by the door. It was grizzling and leaking out of most of its facial orifices. The two criminals shuddered – at least it had shut up, for now.

"We could…" Randy made a vague hand motion that he hoped conveyed his intentions.

"Kill it?" His boss shook her head, despairingly. "You want to be saddled with an infanticide charge, Randy? You want to go there? _Really_?"

Randy shook his head. He had been hoping that she would do it, so that he would be spared the guilt. Damn kid looked just like his nephew. His boss tipped her head back and dug a nicotine inhaler from her pocket. She took a deep drag of the slim tube and breathed out a cloud of pungent smoke.

"I swear, Randy, if I keep working with you morons, I'll never quit smoking." She pocketed the device and tipped her head forward to look him coldly in the eyes. "Okay, here's what we're gonna do: we see if this Eriksen guy survives surgery. If he does, we make him keep his silence by threatening the kid; if he doesn't, then we tell the mother that she can have the baby back when our business is concluded. It should only be a few more days to tie up all the loose ends."

Randy nodded. Good plan, no baby-killing involved. Great.

"Sounds good, boss!" He chirped. She frowned at him through her frameless spectacles.

"You know how _he_ feels about anyone else being called 'boss', Randy." She murmured softly, the threat obvious in her voice. Randy gulped. Sometimes he forgot that the woman was so close to the Big Boss. The moment passed, and she turned and walked around the desk to her high-backed leather chair. "I think from now on, Frank should handle any important business relating to this case."

Randy frowned. "So what am I supposed to do? This was _my case_!" He argued. She spun back to face him angrily and slammed her palms on the desk.

"Yes! And look what a f–" _flipping_ "– mess you've made of it, Randy! It's a fu–" _fundamental_ "- disaster out there! If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a f–" _foolish_ "– traitor, trying to report back to that cu-" _Oh gosh, this is getting tricky… erm, clotpole?_ "- Holmes in the British government!" The woman raved, her face turning red and spit flying from her lips. Something clicked into place in Randy's head.

"_That's_ who she is!" He cried. His boss looked as though she wanted to strangle him, and since she was perfectly capable of doing so, Randy had to explain quickly. "The woman with the shoes was Holmes' assistant. The elder Holmes – the fat one! It was Raven, I'm sure of it!"

This made the boss pause and reflect. Her complexion went back to its usual pale hue, and her eyes were less 'crazy-murderous-mobster' and more 'businesswoman-on-verge-of-a-major-sale'.

"Raven, huh?" She murmured thoughtfully. She turned her sharp eyes on her employee. "You're _sure_? Because if this is another mishap, I swear to God, Randy–"

"No, no!" Randy said quickly. "It was _definitely _her! I'm sure of it!"

"Hmm." His boss looked at him searchingly for a moment. "If it's not, and I end up with some random do-gooder, I _will_ kill you, Randy."

She said it so plainly that he desperately searched his memory again to double and triple-check that he was sure that the woman was Raven. But there could be no doubt. It was her. She had been right there. For whatever reason, it was her.

"I'm sure." He said, with all the confidence of a man not facing his imminent murder for incompetence.

"Very well then. I'll have Frank bring her in." His boss made a note on one of her many colour-coded sticky-note pads. "You're watching our _guest_ for now. Until I can trust you not to fu–" _fumble_ "– things up again." She gestured towards the infant. "Take _that_ with you, and make sure it's unharmed."

Randy scowled. He hated their 'guest' – she was always crying and hiding in corners, and she would no doubt make the damned baby start off again with her high-pitched wailing, and her pleas to be released, and her mantra of 'Oh God, I'm going to die!'. Great. His foreseeable future just went from tedious to awful.

Still, guest-watching was better than being dead. Randy tried to keep telling himself that as he unchained Eriksen's baby and it started leaking tears and snot all over him. Better than being dead. Better than being dead. Better than being dead.

…What was that smell?

xxx

_Back in more familiar territory…_

**Coast should be clear now. -NA**

Sherlock strode along the street on his way to MacLaren's, then ducked into the alleyway and crept over to the recycling bins. He lifted the lids one by one and - there! One of them had a few blobs of a sticky substance (not gum, he poked it; this was some sort of equivalent to Blu-tac) firmly stuck at almost-regular intervals just the right size for a document wallet. Not the most secure way of doing dead drops with incriminating papers, but actually smarter than most people would think. After all, so many people must pass through the alley to throw away their rubbish… Nobody would notice one extra nipping in for a moment or two.

Sherlock's thoughts were briefly diverted by an incoming text.

**On my way to McL's. Anthea insisted on coming too, and I'm bringing Rob along for moral support (not really sure whose) which meant Barney invited himself along for the ride. Enjoy the peace and quiet while you can! -JW**

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and had a quick rummage in the bin. Nothing useful came of it, and some gluey paper clung to his hand for a few unpleasant moments.

_Well, kids, not every lead results in a clue._

He texted Andrews quickly.

**Nothing in recycling. Can I access the bar? -SH**

**Alley door's unlocked, but be quiet, alright? One guy stationed outside the hall entrance. -NA**

Sherlock turned towards the fire exit door that led into MacLaren's, but then –

**We're on the street. Main entrance okay? -JW**

**No. Meet me in the side alley. -SH**

John casually sauntered down the street a few yards ahead of Barney and Robin. Anthea was trailing behind the couple. As instructed, they followed his lead when he sidestepped into the alley next to MacLaren's.

"Any news?" John asked his flatmate.

"You're just in time to help me sweep the place. We have to stay silent once we're inside, as I technically don't have clearance to be here."

"So, same old, same old?" John smirked. "The police are never thrilled to have us snooping around." Sherlock rolled his eyes. The two professionals made to open the door, but Louise stopped them.

"Stop. This is a classified investigation! You can't go in there and disturb the crime scene. You should all stay out here while I go in!" She hissed.

Sherlock groaned and did that thing he does when he walks in a little circle and hates everything in a small, three-hundred-and-sixty degree radius. You know the one.

"Are you serious?" He growled, when he had turned back around to face her.

_I'm told she looked pretty serious._

"Absolutely." She said firmly, still pressing her hand against the door. "Firstly, this is _my_ case, not yours. And secondly, you _cannot_ bring civilians in on this!"

She gestured to Robin and Barney, both of whom did not look happy about being denied access. Sherlock looked livid. I think your Uncle John sensed his flatmate was about to have another of his insulting deduction-based meltdowns, and intervened.

"Okay, lets just try to calm down here." He said, stepping between the two. Just his presence there seemed to calm your Uncle Shock a little – it's one of the unique aspects that makes their friendship so remarkable and also, so very impressive.

"Alright," Sherlock said, taking a few deep breaths. "Alright, think about it this way, then: you need me. I can observe things others would miss. I can help you find the clues you need to solve _your_ case. I am perfectly willing to let you take full credit for whatever outcome may ensue – which, if I am involved, I _assure you_ will be a positive one."

Eve's resolve faltered just a little. Robin seized her chance.

"And as for us 'civilians'," She continued. "I've been trained to use firearms since I was knee-high, and I have three black belts."

"You do?" John asked, but Robin shushed him.

_She doesn't actually have three black belts, kids. She just wanted to sound more badass. Which is ludicrous, because she's already pretty badass._

"Uh, yeah!" Barney added, backing her up… but not adding that he could do absolutely none of those things.

Everyone gave him a look that said they knew he could do none of those things, and that if anyone was going to stay behind, it was going to be him.

"I'm _not_ leaving Robin."

"So you see," John said, turning to face Louise, and holding his hands out reasonably. "It's really going to be more trouble than it's worth to try and convince us all to stay here, and five people will get the work done faster than one." He paused, then added: "Especially if one of those people is Sherlock."

"Ugh, fine. What's the plan?" Mycroft's assistant asked, as removed her hand from the door.

"We sweep the bar, as quietly as possible, looking for anything that will tell us where MacLaren moved his 'cargo' – by which I mean, his kidnap victims – or who else is involved."

"Kidnap victims?" Barney asked.

"Yes. MacLaren's is a front for a human trafficking agency."

"Oh my God." Robin gasped. "So _that's _why we never see the same hot bimbos for more than a couple of nights?"

"This is insane…" Barney muttered. John glared at him, and the taller man held up his hands as if to say "chill, bro, it's crazy but I believe it!"

"No talking once we're inside. Eve, check the till. John, the bar. Robin, the booths. Barney, the cupboard. I'll have a look at the kitchen, text me if you find anything."

With that, Sherlock opened the door and ushered them all inside. They stole across the room to the appointed places and began searching for anything clue-like or unusual.

The next few minutes were spent in a tense silence, with everyone intensely focused upon the tasks at hand.

Barney, having examined the contents of the cupboard, gave it up as a dead end and leant against the wall beside it, admiring the view as Robin bent over to check beneath one of the tables. As he did so, he must have hit a switch or something, because the right-hand wall of the cupboard slid away into a hidden recess at the back, revealing a revealing a gloomy corridor that slanted down into a dimly lit tunnel sloping steeply to below street level.

Barney barely restrained himself from making some sort of shocked exclamation. Instead, he pulled out his phone and texted Sherlock, who was still in the kitchen.

**Bro, you've got to come and see this. Not sure what the hell I did, but there's a secret door in the closet. It's like some lame kids' story.**

**I'll be right there. -SH**

**Also, I am not your "bro". -SH**

When Sherlock returned to the room, he found Barney had texted the others as well (save for Eve, as he didn't have her number) and they had gathered around the door.

_Now kids, we later found out that your Auntie had a bit of a misunderstanding at this point. But we'll get to that soon. All you need to know is she didn't go down the creepy stairs with them – instead, she went outside._

"I wonder what's down there…" Robin whispered, with her voice barely audible even though the others were right beside her. (Years of hunting trips had taught her the value of keeping quiet at such moments.)

"Only one way to find out." Sherlock whispered back with a manic grin. He pushed past her and led the way down, John hot on his heels, and the nearlyweds trailing behind him.

_And so, kids, they went down into the hidden heart of MacLaren's._

**A/N Well, we hope that made sense! (By our standards.) Sorry about the long update time **–** we have absolutely no excuse to give you except from getting briefly addicted to a different fandom… Big thanks to **Namei **for giving us the motivational jolt we needed to get our butts in gear with a review that said "…why stop" **–** it's not yet over. Sorry guys. We would like to promise it won't happen again… but it might, so we're not going to say that!**

**Also, we decided that Molly should share Ted's awkward habit of trying to avoid swearwords. Hopefully that worked.**

**In other news, the Mother has a face! Like, a CANON FACE! Which destroys the premise of this fic, but does make us ridiculously happy! (Yes, we only got that episode yesterday -_- at least we've finally caught up on Season 8!) **


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